Tree House

There’s a house in my brain,
four square walls

and a decent floor.
No bathroom or kitchen or door.

In sickness, in hardship, in health-
I might change homes but-
for its retro rugs
old TVs with bunny ears-

it’s one room I’m not rid of
in house fires, harmony or hell.

Bare feet in sleeping bags
smothered by heat;
clinging to warmth
because when it rains
and skies pound on stormdrains,
all over the east-

pots on the floor catch
water from the roof.

They fail when walls break.
Boards snap.
Rivers just sweep them away.


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