Coming into a room, just risen, cold in the air,
touching the brass knob to let yourself in and
it seems a matter of witness protection where you're not you but waiting for the familiar past face
to see through the wax persona fashioned around the cheekbones.
And in entering, no rough-ready trophies on the wall, stuffed safari heads from shot big beasts,
victory cups etched with the masculinity of an ex-drunk knowing full well
the medical logic of rye 'distilled in 1958' --
not that, but the impress of big light, white measuring spoons, eggs, and the nourishing smell of kitchen and of acceptance.