The First Box Unpacked

The new room echoes when I set down the box. On its side, black marker: KITCHEN — OPEN FIRST. Inside: two chipped mugs, a wooden spoon, the towel with blue pears, one pan my mother hated. I place them slowly in unfamiliar cupboards. Nothing fits the first time. The window faces east. The tap complains. Upstairs, a chair moves. I do not know the neighbor. I do not know this light. Still, water begins warming. Coffee darkens the cup. The spoon finds its drawer. By noon, one shelf has learned my hands. The room has not welcomed me. Rooms do not do that. But I have started answering when the floor says here.