Yet to Be Told

In a house that’s not my own
I wait for the day’s poem
to make itself known to me.

The little girl,
also not mine,
as her mother chases her
’round the deck,
while her father
sits at the piano,
for the theme to a story
that has yet to be told.

The trees rustle,
and though I’ll be driving away
from the ocean,
I’m ready
to come home.