Home
Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Seem to form alone, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design by men
Drawn down the road by agents
In leather solid boots tied together
Buildings line up one by one, become cities
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from the metropolitan site
Enlisted are construction workers
There to create under hard hat dawn
Concrete, lumber and brick drawn down
Blueprints sit pretty in sun light and beams of wood
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Crop up as large as timber
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on, on the lumbered sidewalk
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days however
It’s just a dining area, nothing more
A bed is hidden somewhere in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables to taste
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep the screams serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer back
There is an echo running through the halls
No one picks up or listens when I’m not home
Outside however, work goes on
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2015
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