at home here

home.
From the perspective of the house, I can see it would be confusing, the beaten up wheels of the luggage always banging down the back stairs, the doors always slammed and locked.
Slammed and Locked.
leaving.
She talks so much about it, embroidered into her aprons and socks and coat tags. Hidden in love notes pressed between the pages like a butterfly preserved, corpse bookmark
It's always the topic she returns to.
A globe spinning, the little finger always seems to stop it in the same place, a little mark, like tracks on the yoga mat, worn out.
home
always the same spinning and stopping. a Smudge.

Homelessness can't be so terrible?? there are always trash bags and takeout boxes to be had- rain gear! dinner! what else do yo need?!  Shoes with laces or without, and even CD players can be found just sitting around on street corners, by a bus stop, maybe an EZ-Boy...

I get why it could seem crazy even,
all the going.
You see the trim, the floor the spreads out like an ocean, the curves of the lady furniture, a white counter, a red glowing dot on the stereo.
It looks like a house. Solid.
Windows painted shut. The hum of a fridge.

She looks like a person.

Just grab that doll and stick her in the nursery, on the top floor, put her in the yellow crib and turn off the miniature lights.
She's in the house. It's a house and she's a person. Turn off the lights or I'm going to give you something to cry about.

Being inside is nothing.
floating
locks on doors that look like the necks of birds, beaks, painted and chipped, spotted birds.
horizontal
bare footed,
just leave her in the snow, on the boat with the sharks, just turn on the t.v. for them.
sell her lady furniture
put on another sweater if your that cold.
weave your hair into a basket, we all need to do our part around here.

home
she looks like
a home
I mean a person

There is such a nice view from this window. You are so lucky yo live here.
Everyone must be so jealous, you can see everything from here.