This house, with furniture
that does not comfort.
Like pliable steel, it tries.
How stupid to lose sleep
over this. If I am not here,
then I am longing for here.
The faucet that drips
a reminder, the frozen poplar
stump out back.
Forgive yourself—he said.
You are not to blame
for the deconstruction
of stars, objects and their affinities,
your lack of a Paterson.
Home is where your head belong.
Oh, the characters
you make up. Awfully creative
in your dreams little girl.
And aren’t you always the little girl?
Never the one to change
a tire, never the confident mother,
piano player, or smoker.
No, you like to eat, turn up the heat,
smell the same man, walk nowhere
on your treadmill. Come down
from your cliff dwelling.
Be a rat.