A dirty quilt,
a darting cat.
A left handed Gibson,
a taped up baseball bat.

It takes nothing
to give you an impression
of a place.  

Open blind,
sagging old and shattered
in one grimy window
with dead flies and wasps
lined up
in the dust
on the sill.

You are already
making up a story:
what comes next?

Chocolate stains
on his T-shirt.  Salt
and pepper hair on his head.
He is calling the cat
with an open can
of high end pet food
held out at arm’s length
and she’s coming to see.

All your focus is on
what comes next and
what comes after that —

He puts the can down
and she goes in full face first.
He walks away, out of sight,
perhaps to change and dress
for work or something —
he’s certainly old enough
to not be working anymore.
Maybe he’ll change into work clothes
and start to clean the windows,
play the guitar,
beat the cat
with the taped up bat?

Or maybe nothing 
comes after that.  Maybe
you start to deal with stasis,
maybe you stay with it
hoping for a story, you
become the story, or 
maybe you and your anticipations
and your need to drive events
have been the story all along,
and now you have a chance
to learn how to let things be.