kept company by the perpetual
not knowing
if a place is home
if it could be
if it should be
curves move a different way
in the light of regret
in the 80's my parents' landlord
set fire to their building
to help entice them to break their 20 year lease
(along with some hush money)
and besides my dad had a new cult
based out of the river valley
that caught his fancy
so that’s how we ended up in the drafty house
with bats in the eaves
and the big hill to mow
and more rooms than we could really know
what to do with
and then soon
another old house to roam
splitting time
when my dad left my mom
for the mother of my brother's classmate
with a big porch
and a gravel pit up the hill
then later an even bigger old house
to fit all the kids
with a hefty down payment lent
from my great uncle
and was never paid back
a bigger porch
where we sat and watched cars drive by
trying to guess their color before they popped into sight
a room for each of us
the rooms connected all in a circle
and we chased each other
like chasing our tails until the house filled up with stuff
and all three places each felt so strongly like home
growing up in the rooms
and in the yards
the corners all adding up
to the place where my childhood happened
and now each is gone
like a cookie jar so far out of reach
we could drive by
knock on the door
if we're bold
and give the old "we used to live here"
song and dance
and hope to take a peek around
but looking back
did they feel like home to the grownups
i wonder?
did they feel they'd chosen?
they'd arrived somewhere they wanted to be?
is it owning a place that makes you finally
set your bag down?
or was the perpetual angst
of the frozen pipes
the laundry room floor that was just dirt
enough to keep their eyes pinned
backward or forward
to some other
better place?
