My House
My home is a place
where a straw welcome mat beckons all types of shoes and boots,
where a wreathe circles a diamond front-door window
that is meant to engage all visitors.
The floors are a cascade of hardwood,
intended to be occupied by arched feet
that will never fully assimilate in a way that they would with carpet.
My home is a place that is meant to be inside of me,
beaming out like the bright of a light bulb, even when I’m not there.
Though I must point out the basement
is my utmost beloved lair.
My bedroom, though the size of a jail cell,
comforts me as I occupy one side of the bed,
leaving room for whatever guardian angel that may fly in from Heaven
through my turquoise- adorned window.
A refrigerator stands in the kitchenette
that my parents don’t use but keep boxes of baking soda in.
The La-Z-Boy is garbed in carpet-like material,
creating a ying of uncomfortable and yang of comfortable between the upstairs
and the downstairs.
My closet doors open like a bird’s flapping wings.
I keep my bedroom door closed to ease the fear
that comes with the horrific groan from the furnace room,
which screeches until I swing open the furnace room door
and whatever monster stood there before
retreats into nothingness.