Stay

by Cati Porter

All the houses you have never owned
those you set foot in, realtor at the heel
selling you this or that amenity
have not fit, have fit too well
have been yours only in a dream—

carved balustrades, polished wood,
beveled window glass—slide
in under the camera's lens
shifting and posing in a neutral light
that defies time's pressing thumbprint.

All the houses you have ever owned
those that graze you like a hand
on a crowded street
line the edges of your dreams
like row houses, like brownstones.

From each of them you wave to yourself
below on the quiet street:
from a rooftop patio that glints in the heat;
from a small, high window;
from the uppermost step of cool stairs;
from beside a gently swaying bassinet.

Your close breath on the window fogs
and you draw your finger through,
draw your heat into that fog
dissipating it. And though
you never meant to
stay, always meant to
leave, you have stayed, everywhere
you have ever been,
as though you have never been anywhere else.