The Custodian of Incorrect Endings

Between stations the radio names a city I’ve never lived in
and gives me directions; the kettle joins—two notes.

Receipts disagree about last Tuesday:
one says petrol, one says pears,
both signed by my hand
in slightly different weather.

A yearbook gets our faces almost right—
Sipho with a borrowed dimple,
my hair parted by a stranger’s thumb.
On the fridge the magnets loosen, drift,
spelling HELLO, OTHER
when no one’s in the kitchen.

I file these with care:
twin-stamped tickets;
a photo where an extra hand
rests on a shoulder I don’t recall.
Night brings fog that smells of burnt sugar,
as if the factory downriver never closed
and someone’s shift kept walking.

Then a small kindness:
a voice in my mouth
remembers a shortcut through a suburb
that shouldn’t exist.
Another sets five places, counting—
one, two—also me, four—also me—
the cutlery warming its vowels.

I called it error once.
I chased the leak with labels, elastic bands.
But the hiss between stations turns articulate.
The door chain lifts itself; damp footprints bloom on the mat.
A woman clears her throat before I speak.
A boy hums a jingle for a brand we never sold.
Someone answers when I cough,
behind the pantry door where the meter hums,
warm as a small animal.

Arrivals by night: a folded world throws luggage—
names, flavours, lullabies—
toward any light that can read the tags.
I take the harbour job: lamp and ledger,
oilcloth, a bowl of soup left steaming.
House rules, chalked to keep the chorus fed:
no voice finishes a story it didn’t start;
birthdays written once on the back of the door.

In town my cousin swears I feared the pool;
I remember winning lengths.
I pay the cashier with both signatures;
she doesn’t blink.
At home the dog faces an empty chair
and wags for the me who’s late
from a life I won’t see.
I boil water for whoever arrives shivering.
A towel warms on the radiator.
Five toothbrushes stand in the glass, all wet.

Tonight I lay out cups and tape on names:
Mine, Mine As Well, Yours, Yours From Elsewhere—
and the last one, blank, warm from a future mouth.
The radio sifts the static for us.
The magnets hold the list, singing
we keep what doesn’t fit.
I switch the porch light on, leave the door unlatched.
Tonight we label the cups: Yours / Also Yours.