I can't believe that I used to call it, "home".
The place to which I ran, when a young man
whacked me with snowballs;
where I slammed doors in a rage
of teenage hormones,
or played the Moonlight Sonata
on the upright grand.
How many times,
I paced behind its windows,
waiting for another blind date
to shake my father's hand.
Those wretched kitchen cupboards!
That ratty carpet's edge that lined the stairs,
the patches—mismatched pieces filling in
the worn out spots, when I didn't care.
Unfinished projects, everywhere—
missing tiles, aborted things,
splattered paint where you were too impatient
to fling a cloth.
Solid dining suite, and Limoges miniatures
from a Euro-tour, behind glass—
keeping up with the middle class ...
Your disease made it hard to keep up;
the grass like a corn-crop after harvest (the birds loved it)
the pavement, cracked; woodwork hacked; eaves slack—
I grew to loathe the place, I once called "home".
When we sold it, you had no clue
(I would have given it away, if I'd had to).
It was a yoke, to be lifted.
As we turned up the road, for the last time,
I never turned my head,
and we drifted