A square of late sun holds still
just long enough as here,
beneath incoming flight paths,
renovations progress.
Stripped-out furniture loads
a flatbed truck: tables, chairs
in use till yesterday –
their inherited possessions.
And down the stairs he emerges,
hands ghosted with plaster,
hair flecked with white paint
from newly pristine walls,
to fetch new lampshades
piled like hats from a car
pulled up beneath the balcony –
the balcony where we’ve put
potted autumn flowers:
a first small sign of our own.