Home, a description

It's too much isn't it?

When we stop to think,

Of warm beds and cold feet,

Pressed against mine

Seeking comfort there

As we hear against the windowpane,

Endless drops like tiny hammers,

The rhythm of the rain

Lulling us to into dream

But what a dream,

Not merely shelter from the storm

Four walls and a roof of rotting shingles

To be replaced in Summer

When the sun blares on our necks,

Sends sweat down our backs,

Little rivers of perspiration,

Our shirts sticking to skin

bronzing and crackling like

Dinner is ready,

The smell of the roast fills the air

Floods our senses with herbs and fat

mouths water in anticipation

Lubricating insides

In preparation for the great gorge

The tinkling of silverware,

Conversations at once low and loud

Glasses raised, a toast!

A toast to home,

The dream of home,

A place to call our own,

To return to for solace

At the end of our lifeless days,

the mundanity melting away

Shedding like dead skin onto the floor,

Tracking mud and leaves and pine needles

Take your shoes off, please

I just swept

But it's too much, too big,

To be contained in words,

Not merely a box to be bought and sold

Real estate agents practicing their pitch,

Watching their movements in

the bathroom mirror, a single bulb

I've been meaning to replace

It is more than this, and less somehow

It is more than just the raw materials

The sum of all its parts

The wood, the nails, the brick and mortar,

Windows, double-paned,

Linoleum tiles, insulation, pipes,

A ceiling fan, the fridge's low hum,

That spot on the floor that always

lets out a peculiar creak

The sound of ghosts

It is more than this, and less

It is more than the bills,

Strewn across the table,

More than the joy and pain,

Arguments, laughter, memories

Imprinted, staining the wallpaper,

The kind of stain that never comes out

No matter how much you scrub

it, down there on your hands and knees

It's the way the light filters through the glass

On a pleasant mid morning

The cat watching the dust motes

Suspended in air, a

tiny ballet in the golden beams,

It's the fireplace, if you have a fireplace

Or maybe it's just the thermostat

Click, followed by the low roar

of miraculous instant heat

It's the low drawl of the radio outside

Heard from the other room

Or the distant sounds of children playing

The school bell, far away,

Calling them back, or releasing them

Go home, it says, your day is done

And so they do, buzzing with energy,

To make afternoon snacks

and watch cartoons on TV

It's the sound of bedsprings,

Love in the afternoon,

A record plays but you don't hear it,

Too focused on the task at hand,

Methodical, mechanical, pistons

Moving up and down, a hand on your back,

No need to worry about chastity

or keeping your voices down

No one else is home

It's everything you could have ever wanted,

But you don't know it,

This collection of stuff, of life,

Of death, too

For don't we all want to die at home,

Not in some sterile hospital bed, no

In our bed, in our sheets, a collection

of loved ones gathered around,

Watching in sadness, in love, in awe

Then we will haunt it,

Our spirits going about their lifeless days

Trapped, perhaps, in perpetual motion,

The stains of our experience

left for the next inhabitants

To add to, to ponder over, to wonder,

What was that in the corner of my eye

That spot in the floorboards,

A whisper, murmurs of old conversation

It's too much, isn't it? And not enough,

It's blowing out a candle, flicking on a light,

It's pulling a hot meal from the oven,

It's sneaking a kiss, a gentle squeeze,

It's the shingles, the sweat, cold lemonade and beer

It's the cat, the sun, the dust, the ghosts

It's the sound of rain on the windows,

It's cold feet and warm sheets

It's all of this, and none of it