Never Get Too Comfortable.

Standing at the foot of the stairs,

where her loft sat on the second floor.

He wondered how many men had crossed this threshold.

He glanced around,

noticing old vinyl records, scattered around her room.

There was 1960's art decor and an antique dresser;

the only thing her grandmother left her.

She kept mostly all of her things

in cardboard boxes.

She walked across the room

to her make-shift kitchen

and grabbed a couple beers.

He asks,

"So, did you just move in?"

Distracted,

she struggles to open the beer bottles.

The only thing she could find was a shitty novelty bottle opener

her dad gifted her,

from his trip to the Grand Canyon.

Inattentively she replied,

“Nope, I’d say about a year come November.

Why do you ask?”.

He took a seat on the edge of her bed.

She didn't own much furniture.

He contemplated why most of her possessions were still packed away.

Not a single item

lingered too far from a cardboard box.

Noticing how she would never get too comfortable,

not even in her own home.