On Kedzie, down which no bus ran, I lived
with a roommate dark and tired as syrup
if syrup were sad all the time, who hated
a roommate selling to cover the rent
of a roommate fired from CVS
who invited the devil incarnate,
Hannah, to crash on our couch… Breath In. Breath –
I gotta get out! I grouched to the man
I loved the first time that winter; I sobbed
If this is my home, I don’t have one.
(The mice hid their muzzles inside the walls;
The moths stopped spying through the window screen.)
But everyone loved me from head to toe,
capitulating – Then you have no home.
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3 comments:
i like reading your poetry when i have not seen you in so long. it makes me smile.
If this is my home, I don’t have one.-- My life story.
Christian Wiman has an essay called "On Being Nowhere," which I'd share with you if it weren't nowhere to be found (I lent it to someone).
--Oh, wait... Yes, this will do:
Nothing to do but live.
Nowhere to be but gone.
ah ha!
One other thing, what do you think of the italics? I always have a hard time justifying them in the final line, always feel like I'm striking a cymbal or triangle or something.
...Or does it imply here a different voice in dialogue with the non-italicized parts?
I love the fucking poem, real grade A material. - Ben A.
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