the red power outlet
with the drawn on deathly hallows sign,
the 1960s oven
with the ancient lead knobs,
creeking ceilings,
passing passengers of thought.
calculator clicks from the left room,
taking care of wall marks from
the Muhammad Ali success poster,
past the humming radiators
singing hushed whispers of
youthful experiments of doubt.
i'm twenty-five, and three years late,
but i still wonder if they've figured it out.