Porch Light Ledger

The detuned radio won’t pick a side;
two stations argue softly in my ribs.
Receipts refuse their dates; the till declares
we bought a life at noon we’ve yet to live.
A portrait raises one more hand to hush
a room already quiet with listening.
The tongue remembers countries I mislaid;
my wristwatch ticks in chords, not single time.
The train I’m on and not on passes twice,
and windows write my face in other glass.

I thought disorder named the flocking noise;
I learned to keep the porch light on instead.
Call them evacuees, not invaders—
neighbours who lost their coats, their tickets.
I set out towels, teach the kettle our song,
and let each final voice complete the note.

I used to keep my lists to feel alone.
I keep lists so none are lost; steam marks glass.