UNFILLED CUPS

I know that this house
will likely outlive the laundry we pile in the halls,
and will one day (maybe soon) only barely hold
the ghostly memories of my books in their shelves, and
of our tables and chairs. Our home
may soon forget us, a subtle but troubling aspect
of the life of the middle-class
and half-bohemian
roving family. But we
will have lived here and loved
here
passionately, truely,
and well.
Let the laundry rise in towering piles
while my son plays games of hide and seek
among the towels and winter blankets.
Let the books overfill their alloted shelving
and form stacks and half-ordered piles
on the floor, on the tables, and along the walls.
Let the music we love flood over this place,
let our laughter and our passion
soak in and mend the cracks in the walls.
Let us truly live here, and care not for chaos,
so that when we leave, the ghosts
will not be hollow and pallid shells
of almost-things
and unfilled cups.