House and Home

Five, in a grey box house with a chain link fence.

I saw a boy in a red shirt crouch and aim both hands at my face while

he closed one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope.

He squeezed his trigger and yelled pow.

Nine, in a brick house in the belly of a cul-de-sac.

I ate tomatoes right off the vine while I breathed in the exhalants of a city pesticide truck.

Fourteen, in a two-story cookie cutter home.

Between an emerald front lawn and a sapphire swimming pool, my grandmother put down her bible and held me by the wrists while telling me no one loved her,

not even my father.

Twenty, in a railroad flat with a black bar bedroom view.

I broke up and made up with two girlfriends and one boyfriend.

I wore lipstick when I was with him.

Twenty-two, in a garage behind the DMV.

On a cement floor with a mattress in the corner and exposed plumbing for a wardrobe hanger, I listened to a verbal abuser tread upon his wife.

Twenty-three, in a two-bedroom with Garfield curtains.

A forgotten cigarette left on the porch turned spray cans into color grenades. I came home to a fire truck with red and white lights flashing,

and a hovering helicopter blowing in the faces of my roommates who were high on LSD.

The landlord was not.

Twenty-four, in a one-bedroom with a dirty carpet.

I witnessed from the window a man getting his gun and person removed by the police. His crew later sprayed five rounds into our apartment.

Twenty-eight, in a flat on the third floor.

A red-haired stunner with a fresh tattoo around her navel lie below. Her mouth opened wider than I liked when we kissed. I never complained.

Thirty, in a converted one-bedroom.

With an overbearing roommate who liked me too much, I worked from my room selling useless insurance to senior citizens.

Thirty-two, in a two-bedroom.

I humanely trapped mice and let them go in the subway.

Thirty-four, in a one-bedroom apartment. I lived with my fiancé above an unstable gun collector. He had garden access, but let the fruit rot on the trees.

Thirty-eight, in a condo. My wife, new baby and I rocked, sang, danced, and hushed.

Forty-one, in a three-bedroom home. I see a boy in a green shirt crouch behind my couch, he aims both hands at my face while closing one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope. He squeezes his trigger and yells pow.