Homes

These keys are with me,

as I sit on subway stairways.

They fit in this house,

tight walls that gather

possessions, emotions.

A man sits by me, on these

stairs that no one sits on.

He paints people, sleeps

next to stencils—his home

wherever brushes stroke.

Perhaps these keys will fit

in his frames. He’ll draft

deadbolts and doors.

I’ll see where I feel safe.