Her old, lovely bones breathe
warped and creaking
with visions of what she could be
and past pitter-patters of
Saturday morning cartoons,
sleepovers, and birthdays.
She shelters me,
never passing judgement
should I sleep in on a Saturday.
Within her old, lovely bones,
I carved out a space for myself,
panting it in blues
impressed upon nostalgia from
the bluest oceans, coves, and depths;
when sunbeams enter on perfect angles,
my lungs fill with briny air of days long gone.
Her galley is a patchwork antiquated mess;
shams shimmied together in muddled nonsense
resembling the before photos of a makeover
that hasn’t happened yet, and
probably won’t for some time.
It gives her old bones character,
like an endearingly gapped-tooth
or the slurring lisp of a loved one.
Her living room, where I do
my least amount of living,
ties everything together.
Her redone floorboards
are coming undone
at some of the seams,
I can’t put too-positive a spin on floor damage
because they were expensive to redo,
though I do I blame the ghosts
of rambunctious children I’ve never met
pounding her hapless floors
running through their home,
before it became mine,
their laughter I’ve never heard
reverbing off the not-yet-blue walls.
This old girl shifts and creaks weirdly at times,
but she also whispers me to sleep
when rain pours onto her roof.
She is drafty and scantily insulated, but
she’s also a cool respite in sweltering summers.
She is unfortunately imperfect
and I’m perfectly lucky to have her.
Just beyond her walls though, I hear
there is a garden full of dead or dying foliage
that desperately needs tending,
but I don’t entertain such baseless rumors.