My practice
A salesman keeps knocking
on my door, not easily dissuaded.
My practice is to pretend I’m not at home,
purchasing never again, as I have lifelong,
fading, fraying things that sate and jade,
shatter, wither and pale,
always less than advertised,
ripe for plunder, loss or neglect.
His persistency echoes now
through the near empty house,
like a hearth fire or the grandfather clock
in the parlor, joining its natural
ticks, murmurs, creaks and groans.
At some point, the salesman will go away,
the fire die out, the clock run down.
No one then truly will be at home.
O child of God, truth comes not
from accumulation but gentle subduction.
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