The New Address  

The rug in the middle of the living room, the flag hanging,

whose colour immediately makes me sick, the west window

whining, not to mention the patterns on the couch and the pillows.

The door squeaks, most of all its hinges: How am I to tread on their

heels, no one closes me? The chairs have checkmated each

other. It is still unclear who will get the best place.

The occupants cling to us like guests, whisper the cutlery.

The glasses, the cups, the coffee pots cluster close together

in very cramped quarters. Watch you don’t chip me, they tell

their neighbours. The neighbourhood stretches its necks: who or

what has moved into that place under the gables, with a view

onto the rocky ridges, the incisors not fitting into any

jaw ever imagined. On the mailbox is written my name. Now I

check every day to find out if I have arrived at the new address.