The House We Made

Up in the attic, dust motes swim.

A box of school papers, a child's whim.

And there it was, my old address,

a steep-roofed notion, a childish mess.

The chimney, black and thick, a square,

puffed smoke that never left the air.

No real fire there, no hearth to keep,

just lines that promised secrets deep.

A sun with spokes, a door too wide,

where safety surely could reside.

But looking now, it seems to me,

that house was built for company

I never really had, you see.

A wish drawn out for all to read.