Two Poems by Kerry Trautman

by Kerry Trautman

The Places We Crawl Into

As a home inspector, I shimmy under

floorboards on dirt that foundations

have claimed, and its centipedes and seep.

On vacation, I wander Manhattan street

grids at the feet of steel-glass towers

of stacked lives. Home in Ohio, I test 

electric outlets, garage doors, faucets,

and windows—the stuff of family morning

routines and of children learning to name

their corner of life. Where do you crawl in

Times Square to see what’s below,

supporting everything? In smalltown Ohio,

there aren’t art deco boudoirs, brassy art

nouveau façades and marble stairs. There

is vinyl siding. Pressure-treated two-by-

tens. Where do Midtown children play hide-

and-seek, plot running-away? Where is

the attic thick with ghosts? Scaffolding

rarely criss-crosses Ohio windows we

open for starlings and barking,

not jackhammers. We seed soil we aim

to stay on as long as we can, and maybe

Grandma planted it too. We just want

doorknobs not to stick, and to lock.

Want shingles to keep rain out, and fluffy

attic insulation to keep what heat we

have. We need to know there are places

to run away to, a home to hide in.

NYC Morning

My stupid body doesn’t know it’s

supposed to sleep late on vacation.

It wakes for coffee, sitting in the hotel

lobby with other drowsy guests while

my husband sleeps. Trash truck rumbles

and front-walk hose spray waft in the

glass doors with bus exhaust. The day’s

anticipated heat and evening rain

weigh air like remnants of unsettling 

dreams and toss-and-turn bed creaks.

We will visit Revolutionary battle

plaques, Triangle Shirtwaist memorial,

African burial ground, lick a vanilla

sprinkle cone from Mr. Softee’s truck.

I read a novel in temporary neon, 

knowing problems back home 

will still be there when we get back.

Coffee cools in its stained paper cup.

A vacuum cleaner hums in a tired

hall, emptiness like yesterday, after 

check-in—the deserted hotel

bar at 2pm, waiting to be filled.