by Sean roper
This house is a home.
we lived under the house where the ceiling walked and stomped
in a town of drugs hidden in teapots with boarded windows and lace fences.
This house is, in spite of everything, my home.
There is one bedroom with a blanket for the door,
my parents sleep here with no closet but
Piles of our folded clothes on the floor.
A living room with one couch and one exit door,
a hallway, no that’s just the kitchen perverted
with the fridge that blocks my way.
my sister had the couch,
nearby I slept on a pallet on the floor.
no windows, no cable and the water liked to run cold
I was known to be dumb at school,
I didn’t know the jokes that I “Should”
from TV shows. My house, a prison
because of the drugs that danced in the streets.
So the school playground I laughed and I ran
Till my shoes were over worn and my pants tore.
This house is a home.
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