The House on Main Street

Everything is muted here,

but muffled, not drab.

The red carpet underfoot

is softer than it looks.

The couch under my hands

feels rough and worn,

beaten by dogs' paws,

and the same people

sitting in the same old place.

The television: off-color, like

a photograph taken with a filter

knocked off-kilter.

But my words and rhymes

are too heavy here.

What lives –

simple, witty conversation,

jokes and sarcastic lashes,

love - poured

with your glass of beer.

The dog in my lap nodding off, and you -

reciting lines of films seen much too often,

laughing among faces known so well.

There are lighthouses painted

where the walls and ceiling kiss,

their imagined light shining,

leading me to this place,

next to you.

The wet tongue of a terrier on my face,

and the scent of gin on your mother's breath

as she smiles, chuckles,

hugs me to her, the dog brought along,

everything equal in her embrace.

All of this feels just like home.

poem - January 2011