Ditch the Crumbs, Dickinson

Why stand at our window peering in,

Hungry as Emily clutching her crumbs

And mumbling on about, “No, no, it’s enough” –

Didn't we see that your soles were worn through

By the walk from a wide-flung former door

Of a friend you thought was welcoming, to

The dark musty closet she relegated you to?

Don’t your fingers kind of rebel at

The buttoning and unbuttoning and buttoning again

Of your coat, and the wrapping and unwrapping again

Of your scratchy green scarf, and the paging through

Of your personal narrative seeking some

Page between Vulnerable and Odd?

There’s room! We’re at home. Fair warning:

The hallway is cluttered with shoes,

The toilet paper roll in the bathroom is empty;

The bed we made love in this morning’s still

Skewed and heaped with the clothes that we meant to have

Clean and folded by now, but the more pressing business

Of chili and cornbread, slathered with

Really remarkable slabs of butter, and the grating of cheese,

And the general filling of bellies took precedence –

Ditch your crumbles and join us!

We’ll grow late with you without watching the clock;

We'll watch instead, perhaps, the pitching

And yaw of my belly, and laugh at the baby

Sipping second-hand chili in the womb;

And we’ll brainstorm about where,

In heaven’s name, to put the crib

When it comes? But we know,

Of course, there is room.