I’ve had seventeen homes back packed with books
and trinket boxes full of eye-level memories.
Seventeen key sets window treatments
poor man’s pizza for the stalwart kin
that move me.
Every wall full of nail holes because
the landlord can kiss my ass
the two I’ve owned with walls the color of lilacs.
Seventeen trucks and trunks and one walk down
the street with cats in carriers and
everything I owned in my pockets.
New locks. Baseball bat in the hall because
the neighbors aren’t trust
worthy. Where’s your man?
Seventeen first nights boxes high bare bulbs
outfits in trash bags sitting on the floor
this is home.


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