The Java Trench 2/18/99 Thomas Lipschultz I spy with my little eye the elements of this place in the quietude of rainfall. I spy the side of Duryea, red brick clashing with gaudy green shutters, a stone foundation, a porch, an uninviting door. I spy an oft-used candle of deepest red with a base of cork, a mantle of pinecones, a single green ribbon adorning its body. I spy a mustard packet. I spy this notebook. I spy an unused lamp in the corner, gathering the dust of neglect, standing tall but impressing no one. I spy a resilient and nostalgic device sporting the name of this locale in glowing pegs. I spy our history amidst the Lanterns, scattered upon a bookshelf, one day to be read with the awe I felt one day, long ago, when I saw this place unfold. I spy the continuation of this poem, my hand, the pencil, soon a keyboard. I know I will spy, one day, my own influence upon this room that feels as much like home as where I grew up. I spy the mural. I am home again.