crumbs
with one sweeping motion,
a subtle, yet physical one,
you walk through the house
wiping the slate clean ,
all evidence of inhabitants,
other than yourself,
careening for dear life,
sliding across the floor,
needling the baseboards,
hanging on for lost,
bent and side-lying
in wait for better days
when you are out and about
and we can roam free,
shouting through the locks,
opening up in all the spaces
where you wish we would
cease to lodge ourselves
while your back is turned,
and yet we remain steadfast
awaiting the eventual moment
when you finally realize
your need for other people
is not a weakness.
