#72 DREAMS OF HOME
#72 DREAMS OF HOME
(Americana)
Orange shag rug, dark in places,
Smells like soup left out in the sun.
Daddy says "We'll clean it all up Lyra"
Promises me it'll be easy and fun.
I start unpacking, he finds a chair,
Cracks another bottle, sips, then leans back slow,
Sees I'm angry, jumps up and strikes a pose:
"Gonna be our best dream of home!"
Daddy says...
The basics come first,
When life gets mean.
Four walls, a lock that works,
The home of your dreams.
For this place Daddy hung a poster
Of a castle that says "Our Dream Home."
I'm working at the kitchen table,
He's drinking, playing some song he says I should know.
Record skips, he lurches to the player.
See the scratch, swears and throws his LP
Flops back down, sees I'm ignoring him,
Turns away, beats out a rhythm on his knee.
Move somewhere else,
Larger and mostly clean.
Cups and plates on the shelf,
The home of our dreams.
Daddy's not drinking, and sweating like a ghoul,
I'm visiting his place, short break home from school.
My favorite ice cream melting on the table
Another record on his turntable
He says "Don't worry, I'm fine when I'm alone"
He looks around, shrugs "At least it's home."
I was far away -- semester abroad,
The summer Daddy died alone.
I kept his can opener and turntable,
Things I needed for my new home.
Tidy, far from grand,
Mornings bright and green.
Sunlight, music, plants,
Just my home, not some dream.