This home of ten long years is the place
where my wandering spirit will return and howl
down the tiny carpeted hallway
filled with too many books stuck in the
order-less order from which I’ve memorized
their places

I will float here with brooding, pale spasms
blending in with the crumbling paint on the cabinets
that never closed, not fully, perhaps still marked
with my cookie dough fingerprints

My spirit will know this place
the mold that holds the tile together
layers of dirt on the porcelain sink spell home more
than the rooms I grew up in
back when I kept my belongings in paper bags
and shuffled from my dad’s to my mom’s and back

Even after this building is leveled and built anew
after they chop down the last tree outside the window
I will smear my translucent goo around
that home of a well-to-do, condo-owning citizen,
who will wonder why his stereo speakers whisper and rage
even over the hums of the passing 48 Quintara

The cool grey coffee stained rugs have smoothed
over under my feet
and in the chaotic sprawl of today
where strangers meet strangers meet strangers
could I haunt any other?