Stopping By The Old House




STOPPING BY THE OLD HOUSE



I stand in the driveway
marveling how small the house really is,
how tiny the garage
which was sailing ship,
fortress, and dungeon
back in my day.

A brief detour on my way home
from a sales trip
brought me within 5 miles
of my origins,
So here I am.

I find the meadow anxious
with grasshoppers and heat shimmer
and knew I was home.

There was the set of steps
where I required seventeen stitches,
back there the pine tree
I was afraid to climb down
for two solid days.

The first house I had ever known –
the back stairs that led to our room,
the dining room where the poodle -
in an epileptic frenzy -
smashed himself to death,
the garden room closed off
and only accessible
if you pull out the refrigerator
to get something out of storage,
and even the cedar room
in the center of the attic,
the source of much fantastical terror.

I sit on the stoop,
soaking up sunlight
like I did when I was ten,
and I can hear my mother’s voice
calling my name.

Supper must be ready.



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