Roy Herndon Smith
Mary’s home today.
When she walks from room to room,
her slippers rustle
on the creaking floor.
Downstairs, water rushes through
pipes, which means Peg’s up.
The window muffles
the roar of an unmuffled
car. The stairs squeak as
Mary walks down to talk
to Peg, their voices muted
by distance, but still,
like the faint roar of
a far away plane, the sounds
are also closer
than my faint heartbeat,
my rustling thoughts. Mary’s
home, and Peg is up,
and distant worlds rush
and fall still in and out of
my creaking body.
dust 