Location, Location Poem by Hans Ostrom
Location, Location
I am my home,
my real estate.
Memory contests the deed
and title, would
force me to live
in recall, a phantom
condominium of fate.
I am the shack
of me, a self with rooms,
a past out back,
an attic that looms.
This is why blankets
at 4: 14 a.m. feel
(why rain badgering
roof over the roof
of me sounds) so
fine, appeal.
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4/23/2024 2:52:33 PM # 1.0.0.1119
