I'm the shadows of trees
On the streets when you drive,
The double yellows scanning past your peripherals,
The pothole that you neglect to swerve around;
I'm the relentless thump
In your eardrum
When you crack only one window on the freeway:
I take a while to get used to.
Or the radiator in your room,
Iron and ornate
Because it's seen some nasty winters;
Maybe I'm your mattress on the floor
Unassuming with an open invitation.
I'm probably the corner cupboard in your kitchen
Because I rummaged through it once:
"How can you not have peanut butter?"
Three eggs left and no one to make you an omelette.
Your top dresser drawer, the clothes in your closet,
A half-finished slushie and a half-drunken smile.
I'm the ratty posters on the wall that
You had long before me
And ever since.
And the welcome mat at your door,
Where my sandals, sneakers, boots
All slept so patiently for hours while
I was very busy
Becoming all of these things and
More that you've yet to realize.