No Welcome Wagon

That decrepit ashtray is a gatekeeper, 

silent 

and knowing watchdog.

 

I have been here before, 

crying over traphouse children's laughter,

trembling with sisters in school chairs reused.

    Repurposed. 

 

We marked calendars with dead friends birthdays,

and that bucket of inkless pens: 

an unwanted triumph.

Now my body is a compass for breathing.

 

I, once a shrouded corset,

followed it to this entrance. 

Where cigarettes wrap secrets until they are burned into the air. 

I inhale and listen.

Home. 

    Anywhere I choose to snarl at my demons.