Houses

Sometimes I dream of houses that I've lived in.

Like unfinished thoughts they shift 

In and out of focus.

Sometimes one, then another. 

How my mind will change them

Is always a surprise. 

As if they're made from plastic bricks

They're broken up and rebuilt on the fly.

Appearing like a fact.

Accepted as a memory. 

Pushed together and reshaped like putty. 

But when I'm standing in them, they're solid. 

In the backyard of one grows the garden of another.

A staircase that wasn't there before

Pulled from our house in Schenectady 

Becomes part of our house in Poughkeepsie.

Where it seems completely natural.

Why didn't we think of that before? 

Now owned by other people. 

What have they done to it?

And could we have it back?

Now that we have the money,

We could really do it right.

But why would I want to go backward?

Is nostalgia a part of my dream?

To go back to the places I so desperately wanted to leave 

Doesn't make much sense to me.

As if I'm second guessing myself, 

At this late date…