It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-hour drive.
Sounds of traffic outside my window
remind me I'm no longer home.
Our house, not home, was empty—
filled with silence and awkward glances.
Even father stared at the wooden floors
stained with scratches whose art matched those
of the masterpieces our neighborly spiders
have conjured up in the corners of our lonely abode.

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-year stay.
Clinking silverware, stomping feet, morning chaos
Home.

*—S.C., January 29, 2014