a
poem by
Vernyce Dannells
> bio
Rooms
You marvel at the fact I can't seem to get certain things right
which is the living room, where the dining room?
Yes, I effortlessly move through bathroom, kitchen, porch, pantry
mezzanine, foyer, loge, balcony.
But, are the knives placed left or right of a plate,
where does the napkin rest?
Apparently I guess all the time…and incorrectly.
Should the glass I touch be within reach of my left or right hand?
and will this ignorance count either way?
To whom … Is this truculence about hackles or shackles?
You went through the only two houses you'd know until college;
before then my knowledge already included squatting, the definition
of
eminent (imminent, always imminent) domain, eviction
condemnation and redlining, pining for an address I might share with
-
would I ever even have a friend and be unashamed of "home?"
I fantasized a tent to pitch, anticipating the mercy and magnanimity
of Christian friends declaring, "Our Father's house has many mansions."
Wondered, if indeed I showed my heathen face,
whether I might find a place, and at what price, rice Christian?
My prodigal properties required no rent, electricity, weeding, seeding,
gates
and pruning. But a character shaped in all that unbounded bounty receives
so much of the world; requires so little. I've taken that camper happily
and sometimes unwashed, with me through this gated community -
this life so far afield of the green, groping harrow I know is home.
