some criminals

The scene could have been written into a short story
or sketched out in a quirky movie,
or misinterpreted in a modernist painting.

It could have been so many things
if we’d let it out of the room,
where it wouldn’t be tethered down by
“that was a funny memory” carpet stains
or, “that’s from the antique market, remember?” side tables

It did so well without us, too.
The lunar dent the couch’s feet made
in the sugar-cookie-with-sprinkles rug
had a winning dialogue with the oft forgotten window pane
embracing no particularly special view.

In fact, it’s more of a one-way window,
inviting passersby to see
the domestic poetry thrumming and stagnating
like the sound of the cat’s purrs
on the nostalgia-soaked floors.
We became pieces of furniture there too,
and our roles made us forget our words
for there were too many others
dangling before us,
like “painted china,”
or, “this is what late evenings in small towns look like”

in case you ever need to identify one
in a mug shot line-up
when a police officer asks you who or what it was
that made you who or what you are,
and nevermind the answer to that question—
Be patient, we’ll get there, some criminals just slip away.