Please enjoy Poem 7 for the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project. Inspired by Maliha M, this poem reflects the intermingling of my body, soul, and mind within the place I spend most of my time.
“My Body is My Home”
My body is my home.
A homebody.
Bodies within a house, called home.
Soul home.
A temple.
Quiet and noisy with the business of life.
A confederacy of lifers.
Full of squeaky pumpkin pine floorboards.
Poorly painted white door-frames,
grimed with greasy fingerprints around the knobs.
Ivory light-switch panels,
darkened by working hands over time.
That one light that lights every time,
despite, the bulb not being changed for a score of years.
The jiggle of the toilet flusher,
that is familiar to constipated conscience.
Thanksgiving Turkey-Dinner aromaville,
a lulling hypnotic smell ensnaring.
Ripped elbows in all of my shirts,
because a screw from the screen door rubs against the material,
as I hold the door for others.
The third floor landing giving views obtainable.
The creaky, clanking, metallic pings of rigid radiators finding all the hiding spots,
hissing, snarkily at my rising chill.
The basement door locked lazily by a latch that toddlers can’t reach, yet.
A weathered post it note asking comers to knock because the bell no longer works.
Cape Cod mats collect the world at the doors,
most of the time.
A little gets in.
An aging home,
full of love, and laughter, and tears, and dreams, and scared of the dark.
What ghosts mirror our passage through this space-time?
Windows open in the Fall and Spring,
Allowing the breeze to soothe the anxiety pressing outward and inward.
A sweater provides portable comfort.
Vanilla cupcakes baking in the kitchen.
Bacon gurgling and popping past the toast, as coffee punches through the morning dread.
Nowhere else can harbor the heavy heart and head quite like, this place.
A confederacy of lifers.
Quiet and noisy with the business of life.
A temple.
Soul home.
Bodies within a house, called home.
A homebody.
My body is my home.
