My family, we are nomads.
We don’t believe in one place called home.
We prefer to move when we get bored
We rearrange the furniture once a week
Switch bedrooms when the window view becomes too bleak
to stare out of any longer
how did we end up here?
This new yet somehow already settled neighborhood
Next door to the marshmallow houses
Blown up so huge and full of nothing
Full of fluff
Curtains shut, behind closed doors
We do not belong here.
These people are strange and alien to us
We miss the city
We crave people who shout through open windows
Who braid hair and take drags on the stairs outside
People who know each other and converse in public
Who aren’t terrified to be imperfect
Where the street lights come on but the people remain
We love the apartments
The ones where if youre quiet enough you can clearly hear entire
conversations
The ones where you have to blast the music
Just to drown out the couple in 2As lovemaking
And the old man in 4A calls the cops,
who say youre
“Disturbing the Peace”
Here…
Here it is too quiet
The people hide inside
Afraid of people who eat dinner on top of the car
To soak up the last few rays of sun
Afraid of people who leave the doors and windows open all summer
Afraid of us.

 
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