Home
The pot boils, the pan sizzles. A dog barks
This house is not my house, but it is my home.
Lounging on the couch I breathe. My chest surges up and down.
The dogs’ paws clip on the hard wood, the rhythm matches my own beat.
Children scream, the adults chatter, the TV blares.
I can’t think above the noise, but even in this chaos it’s still a memory. It is still a time to store inside the box labeled: Good Times.
The children and animals are shooed outside.
The TV clicks off.
The pot boils, the pan sizzles, a child screams
This house is not my house, but I am home.
No comments:
Post a Comment