Today’s prompt was to write a poem that describes a small defined space. Not sure this technically fits the bill, but hey ho.
Take a square of dirt. Build on it.
Now you can claim to own something.
Here is a house. Here is a reason
to wake up and spend all day
out of it at work. Here is a reason to shop.
Let me rephrase: here is a house.
In it you can position a bookcase,
a bed. A man with a voice.
Some memories and trinkets.
Let’s rephrase: here is a home.
Now you have a home
you have a reason to never
leave it. You have a reason
to save instead. There’s a man
and a bed. You are growing
a savings pot. You have sun
and sleet and snow and spit
but it’s all outside the window.
It’s all outside of you.
The bed is in the house and you are in bed.
The man is in the bed and also inside you.
His voice is in your head. Your memories
are trinkets. Your savings
are in another life altogether now
which you can access through the books
on your bookcase.
Soon the baby will cry
and it will paint all the walls.
Already its smell is ground into the carpets.
This is what they call owning something.
This is what they call safe.
Picture credit: unknown source. available from Pinterest.