Away

you hear
footsteps following
the low hum of an
outdated vacuum.

family voices echo
and the floor's creaking
serenades -
too stubborn to
give way.

this place glorifies
Saturday afternoons
with stick swords
and frost-colored war cries
dancing
across the creek.

you've never been here,
but a piece of you
lives
in these walls.

it's walked through
the half-broken doors.
it's smelled the burnt matches
and aged Merlot.

it keeps whispering
songs of
escape.

promises pleasure
like
the street-corner
muses.

it's the same piece of yourself
driving away
from your mother,
and Sundays,
and the backyard.

they say you go crazy in places
like this.

the water's too close.
the trees are naked and
broken.

it's too far from
neon
and buildings mimicking
Babel.

they say you go crazy
on winter's darkest days
too.

maybe
you only go crazy
if you
want.

but azaleas and laurels
always find new reason
to bloom.