The House We Almost Bought
Passing the house we almost bought
I look through its windows at the man
I almost was, with his wife who’s almost
glad. The children who were almost ours
are almost asleep in rooms they almost had.
The walls are the light of almost day.
I almost stop to say hello. But most days
when I pass the people we almost were,
they’re quiet as songs almost composed.
I almost don’t want to interrupt
where they’re almost going.
The man I almost was pauses at the window
almost shattered by the sun, as if to almost pray.
I almost wonder if he sees me pass, then wonder
what he is about to almost say, as if I’m someone
he almost knows, or could almost be,
which is almost true. He almost is.