I am from the yellow house who’s stairs never fail to creak
the railings rough, splinters awaiting to poke,
the destination with an awkward temperature.

From the dog at the bottom peering up,
his soft whines bouncing between walls,
his fear and fright forbidding him from further folly,
his loyalty keeping him pinned like a magnet, waiting.

I am from the love of country and music,
the red white and blue sentinel proudly looming over,
the art of modern bards clinging to the walls,
the scratch and hum of needle and vinyl before the song enters.

From the bold and fresh coffee sitting on the drawer, just made fifteen minutes before,
the open window’s breeze hinting at the next month’s freeze,
the wait for the day to have a bit of change.