Squatters

The vines trail over the trellis of the great gabled house
On the hill in the woods, the wind churns leaves
It scatters pieces like a child strewing sand
The neighborhood teenagers hurl stones
Crack windows
During drunken games and overnight naps
Locals turn their gaze away from the eyesore
Of yellow portico growing yellower
But in the eaves, a family of sparrows makes its nest
And a fox dens indoors on a sagging velvet armchair
Mice in the pantry drag in acorns and mushrooms
And the bat in the chimney delights in soot and dark;
Even the fire-less hearth is still a hearth
And a home, a home, for the otherwise homeless

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South Ferry

The lady on the brine we never visit
Her pale green gown rises like a strange tree on the Horizon
The sway of the boat lulls us across the narrow strait
Muddy dark and deep, urban waters
The violent orange of life jackets crouch
Beneath the hard wooden seat against my legs
As I stare out and you sit by, with an arm to ready upon my knee
The ship docks and calls for those to disembark
But we bide our time patiently and I climb down
To lean against your shoulder
As we make our roundtrip home, although we have never left

Perspectives on Building a Home

Watching the birds dart here and there for a bit of tuft or twig, makes me lonesome to find my own home, a place of belonging. How easy it is for animals to court and make a nest. But then again, they have to remake their house every year. They must woo every year. Not even the lesser beasts have it easy.