Last night, we were choosing
a house. There were three of course,

as in all tales like this. None fit.

Oh don’t you remember, I asked you,
we already lived in that one once?

One had stairs that petered out.
Another seemed to have no windows

and rooms with no clear purpose.
The third still smelled of mouse.

How odd we were together
last night, divorced so long, and you dead.

We wandered through them, back
and forth, stepping between decades,

murmuring surely not that again.