"Strangers Will Live in Your House."

This from the darkness of the mind,
that egg of thought, always hatching
and smoothing, this time occasioned by...
maybe the bouncing back at me 
of his reflection in the bathroom mirror,
the current occupant stranger,
electric toothbrush in there, whirring.

Maybe. Who can say? It is not, then is:
crack—notion—smooth again. You made it
for your life. But others as unknown to you
as languages yet to be will invest the walls
they think of as theirs, not—like you, him,
the you of the whirring toothbrush—
the future unknown language of strangers.

Thus society. "The world." This eternal estate sale
eternally on fire. Compress it accordion-style 
into a comprehensible thing, and you
would see how we room together, us
and the oldsters young in faded pictures,
oldsters grown from babies still sperms and ova
roaming the loins of strangers.   

Photo by Michaela Murphy on Unsplash