A Home, Alone

I pull the broom over the mounds,
coffee grounds and white sand,
settled, motionless,
drawing them into a shapeless tower.
The smell of propane lingers,
faint from the pilot light,
an eternal reminder,
I have no happy home or hearth.
The solitude takes me
and as I stare at the rubbish,
meaning vanishes,
and I feel alone.
Then Kenpachi races through the pile,
scattering it with her claws and terrified speed,
as if a torch wielding mob were in pursuit.
Watching as she hides behind a heavy curtain,
a hideous quilt of paisleys
in hues of violet and brown,
I laugh at her grotesque sanctuary.
I return to my sweeping,
listening as the wind blows outside,
dancing through the pines and willows,
and my serenity returns to me.