One Extraordinary Body

One crumpled pillow, not yours.
One heavy, woolen blanket,
Folded, not yours. Furniture—

A single bed, a futon,
A lamp beside a wood desk—
Not yours. A laptop, that’s yours.

No, wait. That, actually,
Belongs to your employer.
You just think of it as yours.

One faded rug’s folk motif,
Featuring turkeys and deer
In a peculiar circle

Of twisting diamondish shapes
Like a beige double helix.
Not yours. The daylight, not yours.

The view over the Slow Lake
Mirroring a pink slate sky,
Not yours. The crutches are yours.