Leather

We wandered through streets of houses,
each a different possibility;
the black cat curled up on the front mat
could have been mine,
looked like mine

As we walked in the door,
I imagined our clothes in the closet,
our dishes in the sink;
thought where we’d put your TV,
where I’d place my speakers

I imagined the counters cluttered,
the newspaper spread out
across our kitchen table;
waking up to you
standing at the stained-glass window

We tried the house on like new shoes,
walked around—
our toes already beginning
to stretch the leather

Originally published in Cascadia Review.

Lisa Fusch Krause resides in Seattle, Washington, with her husband, teenage daughter, and two black cats. As a long-time professional editor, she is immersed in words for a living. Lisa has published both poetry and prose in journals such as Respuestas: the Neruda Project,  Artsmith, Cahoodaloodaling, Cascadia Review, and Scissors and Spackle. She thinks of her writing in terms of “snapshots,” capturing images and moments of time.