I live in a patched house
made out of plants and books and fixed things-

we are affordable second chance people;
super glue and duct tape are our tools of trade:
cracks in plates, doubly worn out shoes, and
safety pinned dresses.
Scars can be sewn up-
wounds can be forgiven.
We are a thick skinned over-healing sort of people.

Half of this house was not here before we moved in.
Half of this house is patches.

This house gets dirty-
not the neglected dust and moth-balls sort of dirty
(we read our books)
but the lived in,
people grime kind.
The dirt dragged, crayoned walls, sweat kind.
Scarred with sharpie and orange paint,
stale popcorn smell kind,
unapologetic.

It is a house for running in summer river soaked
or running out to envelop the first snowflakes
in visible October breath.
It is a house to sit beside and talk to.
It is a house for the teeth clenching cry of the tea kettle
and cookie dough fights and hitting windows.

My house is older than my great-grandmother,
and knows what time of day the train passes
and what time of year it is to be subjected
to the college kids across the street and lightning.
Knows intimately the soles of our feet and
the taste of our tears.

Half of me was not here before we moved in
I am a patched person
that lives in a patched house
We are made of books and plants and fixed things

We are dirty; we are clean
We break and sigh and lie and cry
and die
but
not
yet