The Maynard
Spring 2014

K.V. Skene

It’s Usually Something Like This

like the moon through thin branches,
the black and white in-between
shadows that breakdance
strung-out streetlights
grope window after window after

the grate of the key in the lock
before the house clenches around you. Outside
the city’s still happening,
inside there’s a table, chair, TV, bed, chest
of drawers, a mirror you can check

to make sure you’re still the same person
who tried to blow it all up
into a full-size home
like the one you grew up in
and left

prepared for everything
except this.