In a house that is not my home
On a cookie-cutter street
Battered by the sun, the wind and rain
I wonder how I got here and how I can get out.

All my stuff is scattered everywhere
And hanging on the walls in rooms
That hold no trace of me
Or who I am or want to be.

The neighbor’s floor plan is the same
I could walk in her house blind.
I push my furniture around
But there is still no sign of me.

Everything of who I was
Is boxed and stashed away upstairs.
I’ve never had a house with stairs
And that makes this more foreign.

This house is full of all my things
Shipped across the miles
But I forgot to pack myself
And I am still back there.

In a  home with character
And charm that I created
On a quiet tree lined street
Shared with other kindred souls

The one who wanders through these rooms
Will not admit to being me,
Or breathe life into this address
Nor paint her spirit on the walls.

A guest in my own final home
My name is on the deed
But it belongs to someone else
And I must find a way to live here.
          ljm