Alone by the Fire

A mirror just above the television, 

next to the wood stove,
in the living room,
another year passed,
an old movie on the screen,
a bedtime tale,
and burning embers.

This is the house of my roots:
the rooms echo of Talking Heads
and Graceland,
the roof, full of cigarettes
from my teenage years,
the kitchen contains the ghost
of a mudroom with a well pump.

Alone by the fire, I wonder
what the unborn children will ask
like I ask how they figured out
how long to cook two chickens
in the oven before the internet.

A mirror just above the television
shows me exactly who I am now
but I don’t look.
I just watch this old movie,
not even really seeing
with my eyes anymore.