Through a hole cut in the woodwork
a cable undulates, sidewinds
into a gray SUV
where someone wearing headphones turns
knobs and levers, reeling,
reeling in as though the house
were a shirt being pulled inside out.
At my end of the wire, a plug. I ’m holding it
in my palm, imagining
a, a plastic intaglio—
something that cradles attachments.
Suppose I don’t fi nd it? The SUV is gone.
Along with the cable and plug.
What happened to the crying child?
Our houses now lean in
as though their ligaments
have been extracted.
This article appears in September 2008.
