Lived-In Places

Feb 2 2013

It's not the house I would have built.

You hear about ghosts,
bewildered spirits, stranded souls.
But no, it was not possessed.

And lived-in places
that reek of cigarettes.
Layers of paint,
and year after year
the sickly scent
soaking-in.

Carpet stains
that make you wonder,
door frames
with wood that’s scuffed,

rubbed down

to a fine patina.
Not broken, or bloodied,
just force of habit
the fullness of time.

It was dark,
narrow hallways, heavy paint.
A comforting darkness, I suppose,
like a room of one's own
a quiet withholding.
Even knowing
that behind closed doors
secret lives outlive,
awful lies persist
and fester.

If only
I could have built from scratch.
As it was, I sledge-hammered walls
wrestled 2-by-4's.
Stripped it down
to naked studs, bare sub-flooring.
Tried hard to expunge
the vestige of others,
make it my own.

One great room
with walls of glass
unobstructed.
A simple design
of straight clean lines

natural light.

As if I could be transparent
as my house.
As if cool astringence
could feel like home.
Especially in winter
when trees are leafless, sun is low,
and it can be lethal
to be so exposed.

I closed off the attic,
left the cellar
untouched.