Nights we were young, kitchen a pool
of light, we gathered snug, tethered 
by the woodstove’s warmth,
Dad napping on the couch, Mom’s iron
gentling his cotton shirts. We did homework,
radio low, skipped crokinole disks 
across the board like stones. For company 
we brought more chairs, spreading 
the circle. The whole world floated cosy 
in that space. But the new owners went 
open concept, knocked out walls, 
doors, built a marble island, solid. 
They drop phones and mail 
there, drift past but never quite
land, like twigs slipping down-
stream, heading somewhere 
that no longer resembles home.