do you remember the tiny old house on harvard
the tiny beat-up house we hated but still called home
the piney backyard and the porch that creaked when you walked
the waves of paint on the cream colored walls
and the red recliners that rocked in the living room

our new dog lightening
who was so vicious to others but a sweetheart to us
the one who came to us when we were sad and alone

our white rope clothes-line we all knew so well
and the time spent hanging up dripping shirts
that wrinkled in the sunlight until the next day came

the bars in our living room above our heads
that held our clean clothes
the clothes we had to push out of the way to get to the other room

the small 'island' counter that carried our thanksgiving meals,
our piles of mail, and stacks of homework

our medium-sized tv where we heard the new president talk
the weatherman's confident words
and the comforting sounds of cartoons

the screened side door where flies and mosquitos would sneak their way through
and the fly swatter that hung right next to it

the same home i begged for a guinea pig, and not long after i got my new pet,
felt the cold body in my hands,
my second experience with death

our wooden 'fort' built outside just for us
the one we worked so hard on
that was abandoned after one meal and card game
because of the florida weather

the room us girls slept in, sweat in, could barely walk in
but still sang 'hey there delilah' in

our inflatable pool we had so much fun in
until it turned green with slime
and damaged with holes

the car rides with the smell of cigarrette-cigar mix
and loud music
that brought us to the store
and to church
and back to the house -
the tiny beat-up house that we hated but still called
home