Wednesday, January 23, 2013

An Untitled Poem

This poem is actually true, except that I wrote it after I'd grown up and moved out, because I missed the place. I never gave it a title.

I live in a house that is musty
And always is hopelessly dusty.
The rug there is stained
Where it leaked when it rained
In the house where the rug was before.

The view out the window is pretty.
The floor that's beside it is gritty.
The cracked up cement
Is pretty well spent
But it's all that we have for a floor.

The house wasn't built for a dwelling
(It's perfectly true what I'm telling),
It was simply a shack
That was built out in back,
But it still is the home I adore.

No comments:

Post a Comment