Outpost of Sameness

An ode to you, oh outpost of sameness,

Gnarled and arthritic room of solace.

October’s brittle leaves heaped on unswept floors

Where the soul comes to lie in wait.

Knuckles crack and fingertips grow cold.

Tea is served and the world outside the crooked window fades.

Oh outpost of sameness,

Of all the deaths that one might see,

It is in this October’s room she looks most lovely.

A vibrant decay, the snap and the pirouette.

Comfort me oh outpost of sameness.

Arriving each year more hunched and forlorn,

Take me in your arms,

Light the candle,

And tell me the brittle leaves of my life have had some meaning.

It is here, outpost of sameness,

I lament always what might have been.

A purgatory before the hearth fires of winter,

I've strewn my leaves across the floor once more.

For that is fall, October’s room.

The kindling before the flame.

It is here I can say his name while the world sheds its green.

I find him among the leaves of old and hold him to the light.

Say his name.

Oh, outpost of sameness.

How one forgets that familiarity is not the same as comfort.