Interior Housekeeping

My sorrow is not a city, and not burning. It is Railroad Street
in my town, so small it has only six houses, all facing

the tracks, three of them neat and clean, two in need
of paint and shingles, one so poor that nobody remembers

how to open the door, how long ago the gas was turned off,
what dwells and swells inside the dark refrigerator.

Maybe there’s an old man in the bedroom upstairs,
drinking from the rusty sink tap, eating stale corn chips

and Oreos. His wife left a note, but it fell behind the stove.
He took what he could find upstairs a week ago, knowing

this was his last trip. He pared mold off the last wedge
of cheese with a table knife, then tried it on his arm.

Twice he heard the phone ring, the second time for an hour.
He remembered to put the cat outside. He ripped the bag

of food right down, filled the water dish. He locked the doors.
The sheets have flowers on them. The blanket is wool.

A family of squirrels is living in the wall near the chimney.
They scratch and chitter all night. He scratches back.