Could I Live Here (Again)

Frannie Z

 

They’ve probably

redone the woodwork.

Painted the kitchen

something sober

instead of the bright yellow

that made me warm to it.

If I brought the bookshelves,

carpets and tables back,

and the dishes,

would I hear the ghosts

of voices I loved?

When I opened the door,

would that echo-yet-not

from the stuccoed walls

rest a moment on the air,

making the inrush

of noise almost holy?

 

A more pressing,

albeit more mundane concern:

Would the elevator still work?