You own a home. You own the value
of your home. You own a page
representing particles in an account.
You own chairs, tables, furniture.
You have a memory in your muscles,
the way you know
where to touch her in the dark.
You own the fading taste of garlic and carrots,
chicken broth, chives. You own these.
You have debts. These also belong to you.
You owe a mortgage. You owe part-
icles to Wells Fargo for your home,
and particles to Bank of America
for your credit card, the classmate
you barely noticed 35 years ago.
She could come back to you.
Debt is the possession of fear.
This is what you own. This is what you owe.
This is also who you are:
hope, fear, and – oh, yes -- desire:
another kiss, another sip of broth.