It is difficult to ignore
the run-down playhouse.

The ivy running
up the sides.

It has belonged to spiders
for seven years,

the yellow paint is
chipping, you cannot see

the ladder inside, how tiny feet
clambered up the wooden rungs,

the windows clouded over
with dust.

And I start shaking,
only a child could understand

longing like this,
I've never been sheltered

like they've sheltered me
for all these years.

In the absence
of childhood memories,

this house is how I know
I was loved.