We're moving soon - and I'm getting ready to say goodbye to our apartment. I'm not much of a poet, but I enjoy it. Here's my "Ode to our Basement Apartment":
Yellowed paint flaking, the girls pulling more
from the walls, from the hallway,
from the holes in the door.
Wherever their fingers
can find a beginning.
I wonder if this is what I will remember.
Will I remember the Whistling Room named
for the echo it made,
and the dip for a drain?
Or will memory hold of the room "MPR"
that housed our dining table
and the bed, not too far?
Is there room to remember the bathroom so neat
with plastic stained glass
on the window complete?
Will I recall doors,
wouldn't shut, never budged,
always squeaked, until slammed with a terrible thud?
Is there room to remember that our story began
in that basement apartment
a home 'round the bend?
For this was our home,
and homely at that,
but it served as the place, where our family began.