That big brown house
I lived in the basement,
across from the
broken pellet stove.
my feet would get chilled
by the cold brick floor
on my way to the bathroom.
That house was always cluttered,
no matter what level you were on.
My floor was filled
with old t-shirts and clothes,
my dad’s album collection,
and big, grey bins
that my oldest brother left behind
when he moved out.
My room was dominated by a lonely pair of bunk beds,
the bottom long since vacated
by a boy I wouldn’t see for years.
I imagine myself going back to that house,
as cobwebbed as it had been when we moved into it,
so that I could scrape the dust
off memories I’ve long since buried
and lay to rest others
I’d rather leave behind.