Boxes were unpacked and shelves reassembled
and I've managed to
rebuild my life in a different basement.
this one's better, I think.
more square footage.
I can leave more of a footprint here
and I can let my guard down
because that other place was a house
and this is a home.
I've got a dog here.
his name is Murphy and he weighs more than most people.
he eats bottle caps and wood chips and bad days
and he buries his head between your legs when you come home
like a shovel sinking in sand
and he's sad when you leave in the morning
and relieved when you return.
it's nice to be missed.
but I've got memories in this place, too.
I've let people into bedrooms and stories
upstairs was the first place that she kissed me
and downstairs was the place that she
(who had the same name, but different)
cried herself to sleep
repeating my name like an incantation
after she realized
but the saddest is the middle floor
because that was where I let you go.
that was where I told our story for the first time
to the only person that would listen
and she didn't flinch at details that
she'd rather not have heard
and it was the point at which I knew
that I'd always have somewhere to go
when September returned.
speaking of which
my parents got a new couch.
it's nice to have something to sleep on
that none of you have ever touched.
and last night it felt like all I had left.
there's a blue blanket I use every night
and you've all been under that same blanket
and on my mind
and out my door
and I'm getting tired of prepositional phrases
when I'd much rather just have a life sentence.
or at least a comma or two.