Home Poem

Spitting my toothpaste into the kitchen sink
because I came down to the
too small kitchen
to put away the bread
where I always do
on top of the fridge,
I think about the dexterity
one is afforded in a house
that has been home for so long.

"What's your definition of home?"
The professor asked at the literary do.
"Home," answered an older, dark
woman almost immediately
"is where I can get to the
bathroom in the middle of the night
without a light."
Just so, I could scoop that bread
off the rack I always cool it on
and box it and fridge top it
in the dark.

This house that we, childless, bought
and have filled with two boys.
This house with its tiny rooms and
creaky floor and one bathroom day or night.
Not every happening we've crammed in here
has been one to hold onto.

Will any other house be as home as this one?
I'm sure. Actually, I'm not.

Maybe, actually, I'm afraid.
Maybe I fear that what's happened
in a decade here is in fact
as happy as I remember it to be tonight.

When I fear that these are the best
years of our lives and each day tips us from
peak to downward slope, I should remember
how hard it was to fall asleep here our first night.