Newspapers, I imagine, accretes up
on the red stairs. Perhaps I indulged in
forgetting to notify the paperboy
about the shifting. No forwarding address.
Sometimes I regret not changing my phone number.
Missed the call of the oblivion. Blinks and dots
of the unread messages remain undead.
This, I hate about the change, neither the newspapers
nor the messages; this, I hate, the new becomes reality,
not just a possibility. Sometimes I pick up the key
to the old house and use it on the new closet.
The day it will do the trick, open the door others’ll close.
Illustration Nick Victor