Home
Is sitting in a car
in the dead of winter
with blankets and coffee
until the windows are steamed
with gossip, tears, rants, and apologies.
Home
is a dirty Redford basement
filled with marijuana and cigarette smoke
sleeping at awkward angles
on a love seat
with a boy you barely know
with limbs tangled
and music blaring upstairs.
Home
is in a run-down truck
sitting next to a strange boy
under Detroit’s city lights
while a dead man’s voice plays on the radio.
Home
is standing in the presence of a man
who has been through so much
and continues to fight an invisible battle
every day
with a smile on his face
and a diet coke
in his left hand.
Home
is a big beige house
with white tiger-decorated interior
on a dead-end street
where the pranks never stop
and playing Dance Dance Revolution
is a nightly ritual.
Home
is skipping class
and writing bad poetry
on the bathroom stalls,
or going to Taco Bell
and playing UNO
for hours on end.
Home
is cuddling with a stranger
who has
a Billy Mays tattoo
on his thumb.
Home
is waking up on a crooked bed
in the bedroom of
your high school’s 2010 Prom Queen
with a cat on your pillow
and a pile of junk food wrappers
on the floor next to you.
Home
is in card games
played
on living room floors.
Home
is a smooth-flowing pen
and an empty notebook.
© Gina Clingan 2017
From my book, Redford, which can be purchased here
