At 6 months in
and half-unpacked,
the spare room fat
with boxes stacked
like bricks from some
demolished city, home
is where one day
Wynona vows
she’ll hang the hat
or route the cows
she doesn’t have
the width for here; as half
the time she’s pressed
to pay for cable,
what’s living large?
A sturdy table,
fewer ghosts—
at best, a dinner guest.
