Poetry

Which Frame Do You Want?

If I should want a house,
I must write it into existence,
every word a dart I fling at a penny
in the hopes I make it mine.
What is this accounting thing?
How many dollars does it take to make a home?

Oh. Oh my …

That many?

If I should want a house,
I might have to build it myself,
with all the skills I do not have
and money owed to institutions.
Paychecks won’t check any mortgage boxes.
The seeds of this dream may be fruitless.

(And I’m one of the privileged ones.)

Time and want do nothing for me
except riddle my bones with anxiety.

It will take decades to approach the dream house,
each step a monumental task,
and I’m running out of energy.
Lethargy has taken me.

I used to love looking at tiny homes.
Maybe that’s the best answer.
Though I’d love to grow huge gardens
and plant all kinds of food.

The dream, the dream, please don’t
wake me up.
My headspace is free, my brain
has no need for rent.
Rend my lungs and liver from my body
and sell them where you can –
is this down payment enough
to organize a trade?

If I don’t need to breathe,
a coffin will house me well enough.
I suppose I can finally have my own place
when I’m dead.

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