I can tell you how many steps
are on the staircase in the back,
heading up to the office.

I know every little sound that
old van makes, from the whine
of the power steering pump to
the chatter of loose paneling

I can show you the boulders in
the park down the road, and the
foundation from some old pumphouse
that’s buried under fallen trees

But acute as I am,
with all the transitive guile
intrinsic to my family ties,
I never even saw you coming.