on rough days,
at the very edge of the
path leading to my house
i stop and stare straight
at the looming brown structure
with its washed-off paint and
broken wood planks and
softening gray concrete and
askew roof coverings
seven minutes, two minutes
until my 92-year old neighbor tells me
Twinx, go home before it gets dark! like
i'm still the same eight-year old kid
running around under her
kamias tree after 6 pm
on rough days,
i wish the path to my home
was a little bit longer
i wish the steps i take
were a little bit slower
just enough of a distance
to keep on pretending that
i do not bear the crimes
of my dysfunctional family
where do you go when home starts to feel like a penitentiary for the sins you did not commit?