With the easy practiced motion
        of hands on knobs of doors one knows,
        she hips them open and heels them closed.
                The key is on the bed.
With the sharp resolution of hands seizing bags
        she moves down the hall and out.

        In the street,
the ceaseless, jerking flow of traffic
breaks the quick insistence of her feet,
makes her lay down the bold new decisions
        at intersections
                and rest.

        In the new building,
bright patterns flicker on the tiled kitchen floor
        as gusty breezes gambol with the curtains.
Strange smells linger from some other’s cooking.
The place is small but holds real promise.

The days grow longer
        with the new measure of the night.
She finds a print for the hallway wall,
        relearns the evenings for garbage,
        the taste of meals for one.
The cookbook stays open
        on the table in the sun
        and her own smells grow stronger
                with the light.