Just the wooden skeletal outline of something not yet there.
With no walls no moldings no outlines
of the parts of a home, no reason to separate
and label rooms and parts and pieces of things
and isolate them all from each other, not yet.
No railings on the stairs leading up to
the second floor, nothing to hold on to
while we walked up with the gingerly
drowsy steps of cautious sleeplessness,
just the wooden skeletal outline of
something not yet there.
Yet it felt comfortable and we sat
down on the floor covered in sawdust
and ash and crumbs left over from the
workers who would be back again in
three hours and we blew smoke out into
the hazy pre-morning dawn that wasn’t yet
blocked out by curtains and frills and shades
and we looked out the door that no family
had yet slammed in anger or creaked open
slowly so as not to wake anyone
at an hour such as this.