I've got questions for your answers

I'm the queen of tree limbs

On the streets when you're driving,

The double yellows scanning through your periphery,

The pothole that you neglect to swerve around;

I'll probably always be the relentlessly harmless 

Thump

in your eardrum

When you crack only one window on the freeway:

I take time 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,

and oddly safe.

Or the corner kitchen cabinet with the peeling paint

Because I rummaged through it once:

"How can you not have peanut butter?"

Three eggs left and no one to make you breakfast.

Your top dresser drawer, the shirt sliding off the hanger,

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 no-longer-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.