Host Body, House Rules

In the waiting room I relearn the word form—
boxes like doorways; a square for each stamp.
Names line up in the clinic ledger,
dates latticed. We sit in hush, a queue,
called by numbers toward a glass-lipped gate
where voices travel softly, and sometimes slip—

not far, just a tremor: let the needle slip
a whisper under skin; let breath take form.
Outside, two late trains pass the iron gate,
their rails a brace. My ticket bears one stamp,
then two; the carbon copies thin as a queue
of moths, grey freckles on the nurse’s ledger.

At home we tack house rules to a cork ledger—
cork grit under thumb. If words should slip,
slow them; no one shouts. We manage the queue
for showers, label shelves so jars keep form;
date lids in pencil, press the same small stamp;
leave one spare key on a nail by the gate.

Night: a border post, a painted, patient gate.
Clerks lean over stars and balance the ledger,
the spine creaks once; they wet a felted stamp
and lift their lamps. They nod at my chest—slip
the tired within; assign each guest a form
that fits our beds, our stairs, our morning queue.

Morning: the platform; the crowd—a queue,
mirrors as turnstiles. I shoulder through a gate
into a single self that holds its form.
On the hall table, the house ledger
smells of dust, lemon oil. A small slip
of steam fogs my glasses; I press the kettle’s stamp.

By evening the kettle sings its cloud-warm stamp,
and names assemble bright to make a queue
around the table. If sorrow starts to slip,
we steady plates; we shoulder open the gate,
sign for parcels with a laugh in the ledger;
we learn the wrists’ slow grammar, the work’s true form.

Envoy:
I sign the form at the gate; the trains’ long stamp
shakes the ledger; we wave the queue, let light slip.