I walk past the front door with the broken lock and handle,
the door that only ever opens to welcome in 3 a.m. cream cheese wontons,
and head right into the back yard like I live here.
I do live here.
I walk up the rickety porch steps where I sat crying into Geddes’ drink
before stealing it and using it as a numbing chaser for my heartbreak,
past the circle of chairs where I rebelliously took a drag on a cigar
Backwards.
I stumble over the piles of recyclables, and the uninvited resident possum
and walk through the back door and into the kitchen…
I love this house,
With its chandeliered ceilings, mile-high floorboards,
forest green granite countertops and a lone stained glass window–
Outdated embellishments from former tenants,
haphazardly shielding the grime of beer-laquered floors.
I sit on this familiar, disease-ridden couch,
my toes tucked under to keep from freezing…
this is where I was first introduced to the classics
like “Superbad” and “Zoolander.”
Here, over beer and tequila and cheap peach champagne,
and endless games of Kings and chandeliers,
pregaming turned into midnight turned into New Years.
Before I moved away.
Somewhere buried under the piles of mail and hooker cards,
there is a ripped up Bud Lite Lime box where I scribbled an apology,
a thank you to the boys for their hospitality and hair holding.
And a Christmas card.
Here, we spent lazy Sunday afternoons watching the game.
I cleaned the kitchen with bleach only to dirty it up again with enchilada sauce,
the smells of soap mixing with onions and chicken.
Or Bolognese.
It’s funny in a house of boys, I managed to be surrounded by sisters.
We “guy’s girls,” a breed all our own, laughing and bonding.
And sharing Alec’s clothes.
The boys used Best Buy’s “No questions asked” return policy
to equip the gritty, sound-proof basement with the best sound system on the hill.
And there, next to the “sex couch,” and under the blacklights,
Dez taught me how to dougie.
This is the house that raised me from GDI to TFM, from princess to squalor,
this is where I lick-shot-lime’d my semester away,
learning more and growing more from lazy conversations
over Crispy Dough.
I found this poem in my email drafts. I probably wrote it seven or eight months ago, but just rediscovered it.
