homes

There are ones made from sticks,
stuck precariously
on tree-tops with circular foyers,
open roofs, no furniture
and only enough room to squeeze
in close together, which is
quietly stunning.

I’ve seen them in places that smell
like fire and piss, little shanties
covered in soda-advertisements, torn
consumerism broken-bottles dust
rugs, absence of windows, holes wire gates
needles dirty cups and everything.

There are those that sit along the East Battery
where they sip sugar and mint juleps, watch
the tourists in Charleston and
someone else is always looking
inside, envious strolls along the water.

I’ve seen borrowed ones on the corner bit of
walkway where the train-tracks run overhead
and fourteenth street starts,
with foundations of stray quarters, a dog companion
and a slab of cardboard bearing a mailing address
no one ever writes to.

Some are built in hospital rooms where
pictures from a mantel
somewhere else are brought in
and flowers spew their smell all over the place,
the background noise is television sounds, cozy
with the door always open, strangers walking by,
so close.

But often I find them in unexpected places
when I walk alone and think
of something you said once,
or of the way you laugh silently,
shrugging your shoulders
and then I find inside my resulting smile
that walls build up,
and in the slight movement of my mouth
there is some sort of
residence being constructed
right there on the sidewalk.