Houses

Houses,
I moved like cattle,
settled like seasons
then stricken as a gag.

Houses I lived and died many;
places I brought blankets,
pictures of moving lips with no sound
I could not decide to fear.

Houses built but never for me,
broken in for a real family.
Homes where broken dishes lay,
murdered paintings admired
left in her past she killed
only to ride to another set as my mother pulled, while I
don’t quite remember the feelings.

Houses,
large and plush,
winnings adored
and slightly relished.
Intermittent embraces
between dramatic scenes –
recreated someday.

Houses I dream,
places I see
play like a music box
to comfort and horrify,
and my hope –
it will evaporate as I
move along,
and move along
taking in another panoramic view
of manicured green lawns
I pretend to ignore,
shedding my hand from hers,
avoiding her sound from my tongue
and pardoning myself, if I can.

Houses