Arroz con Pollo

There’s a tiny old sadness that reside in small hallways of brown floors, doorframes and base boards.

The light is always yellow and the air just a bit too warm and moist.

The walls are forever scented with Arroz con Pollo from yesterday and powder detergent.

These are the homes I belonged to yet were never mine.

The way the love greeted you when you entered and lingered on your clothes a day after stopping by.

These were the Spirits that told me I was wanted and could stay as long as I liked.

Yet without fail, I was forced to retreat, forever too soon

To our own oversized cave.

With a grandmother who never cuddled me’s furniture.

And the cream carpet you had to walk shoeless on.

My parents bedroom that had no door.

And my own space, the center of the house, the largest room, with doors on either side that never locked

Entered whenever, by whoever, no matter, to me.