Home is where upper meets lower and will not
compromise with each other but just let it be
spelled this way to match the unexpectedly
unfrenzied shock treatment of pure peace.

hOME is wHERE her necessities are misplaced
then show up later when least expected
home is where she meets herself after hours
of casual pawing through pastless memories.

Where he puts down his coffee cup and forgets it
where he keeps opening the door to breathe in cold air
where waking up and falling asleep touch noses
where clothes are as optional as they are comfortable.

No need to laugh at copacetic satisfaction
no need to wring hands over unacted actions
found here big clouds but without shadows
weeping willows over apple and potato cellars.

Where stove is right and plates and bowls left
everything the way it was and should be
doors never really closed all the way but ajar
so everyone can hear what we say, what we are.

hOME is wHERE his and hers are funny words
where a big bed has two sides in the mind
where the kids and grandkids come and go grinning
at corners and echoes back to some beginning.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in love, poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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