What we found in West Ripley the winter of 1970

Snowdrifts crowded beneath the sagging roof
of the porch, thick mounds that we slogged through
in the spitting cold of February, the four of us drunk
on owning an actual house, a house tired and roughly used,
smelling of tobacco mixed with the hard nip of night air,
worn with the memories of all those Bane children
birthed and shouldered out into the world, the floor
nothing but bare boards where we laid our sleeping bags,
settled our Coleman lantern, arranged ourselves
in a circle, broke open a bottle of champagne,
laughed with our white breath and, finally, slept
knowing that we had found our own place,
however crooked, in this restlessly tilting world.

Published in:
Bangor Metro
Jan/Feb 2010

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