anyone lived in a pretty how town,
but I never visited anyone very often.
Even my thoughts are orderly and
punctuated (though we often tried to
work them into some kind of disarray).
Many nights he tried, poor anyone,
until I rolled over into the welcome,
dark silence—my failure. I was annoyed,
once, when anyone forgot to meet me
at the station. I had to carry my suitcase
several blocks past the square, down
broken sidewalks and misspent alleys,
until I reached anyone’s door and pushed
my way in because anyone never did
answer even the loudest knock. He was,
that day, musing by the kitchen window;
it was open even though the first day of
spring in anyone’s town is never to be
believed. Anyone was not sipping his
coffee, which looked to be many days
old, thick as a mud puddle, with a skin
on top, taut and shiny as the face
of a balloon. I was fuming. But then
anyone smiled, raised a cloven hoof
in greeting, and there we were.
(and there we were)

NaPoWriMo, Day 1 prompt: Borrow the first line of a poem and write a new one. This particular first line is from e.e. cummings. I was going to choose something more obscure, but this poem mostly wrote itself while I was walking from my daughter’s school to my train station.