Foreclosure Poem by Richard Herring

I've called a lot of places home before,
and I don't mean places with a roof or door.
A better type of structure lives,
in wood beamed cages made of ribs,
of flesh and gore and capillaries,
a chandelier hangs of arteries.
While window eyes sit staringly,
the stained glass panels, welcoming.

There's no noisy neighbours fornicating,
right next door their nasty mating,
seeping through, establishing,
the sleepless nights, they're maddening.
There are no cracks in bricks or tiles,
when you live in hearts and minds and smiles.