Departure rites.

It had something of

the romance of my parent’s homemaking.

A small patch of comfort.

I took it for all the rooms,

a pace wide and a bed long,

that i created from the drive

to step outside myself.

In every transition, this rug stood in

for any other need of ownership.

My morning feet find it still,

even as i divest myself from another age of

unravelling, reams of yesterdays jettisoned.

And amazingly, thrown forwards,

you daughter, awaking in another city.