The ugly green house on maple street’s corner,
with the rotting skin and patched up wounds.
Whose windows haven’t been scrubbed
that has a boarded up attic
and leaning back steps held down by cinder blocks.
The house you can only get into by hoisting yourself
over a splintering gate into a raggedy yard
but where the back door will always always always
be open.

The yard is in shambles,
the grass is so high you could hide in it for years.
A playground that will never again be safe to play on,
plays family to a tree that’s been struck by lightening
in every month of the year, that has no leaves left
but has a nook that’s just the right size for sitting
to watch the daylight fade.

Twenty two steps to climb with a worn oak railing,
floors that creak by the weight of a mouse
and walls dappled in nail holes.
Three bedrooms, all messy enough to be comfortable
and heaters you’ll only dare touch once.
A perfect view no matter what you’re looking for
and the reassurance that when you wake in the night
the same dim hall, the same floor
that’s cold to the touch on your tiny bare feet
will still be there waiting.
The ugly green house on maple street’s corner,
is not a house, it’s a home.

I will never let go
of my ugly green house on maple street’s corner.