The House on Monroe Street

That I am going to walk through today with

a stranger

has more rooms than I need and

needs more money than I have and I

don’t need all that space now but

it is old and has a wide porch that

looks over the Fox River, flowing north, and

it has enough room for things I don’t

yet know will come to me, people

or a cat instead of the usual dog or maybe

sheets of writing paper shredded into

bits, roomfuls of it that I’ll have to

make into pieces of paper again

before I can write on them, and then only

after I’ve foraged some pens that use

ink and not blood.

Last night I dreamed that I was

walking through the house I live in, which

was not my house at all, and like a discoverer

hacking through my subconscious jungle

I came upon undiscovered rooms upon rooms,

and a coffeehouse that had been there the whole time,

all set up for customers, and screened porches that I

could have made into my office, and

a back yard with lightning bugs

and a beach with Adirondack chairs on a lake

that I had never known was there.

I only found these things upon leaving.

This morning there is no

cafe no

porches no

beach – just

me

and some boxes, and a ticking

grandfather clock that your family

handed down.

But I know there are more

rooms hidden in the bones of me,

more rivers that flow north,

and that there are things I will only find

upon waking.


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