The Kitchen Light
Rain on my coat, the small key in the lock—
a soft click I have always learned to listen for.
The hall smells faintly of citrus and kettle steam.
Someone left the kitchen light on: a rectangle
spilling warm milk onto the linoleum, the clock
making its quiet, honest rounds.
I shrug off my wet sleeve. The rim of a saucer
catches the kitchen light, a thin silver edge on white.
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