Thinking of the Bodoc House

I’m thinking of the Bodoc house,

Of the porch and its swing,

Of the screen door at the back,

Of how the floor slants, and

Of the scent of old kitchen grease.

I’m thinking of the Bodoc house,

How the way the air passes through the house,

How there are dead insects beneath the windows,

How the television works,

But arbitrarily and without sense.

I’m thinking of Bodoc, and

The rush of memories of the old house,

House in which I was born,

House which holds in truth and in my mind,

My life.

--April 22, 2013