Homes

Homes

I was not born to live on Mercy Street.
I wasn't carried through those halls, so I can only wonder:
Were the windows shuttered and doors closed tight?
As the family gathered around the table, did you feel locked in or out?
Did you plan your escape or had you thought you might settle-
At home, in that house on Mercy Street?

I can't picture the layout of such a house.
Was the kitchen warm- your bedroom comfortable?
Did it catch the morning or afternoon sun? Any views?
What color were the rooms, the shadows, the secrets?
Were the floors carpeted with misgivings or
tiled with disappointment? Did you have to step lightly?

I didn't see the way light filtered through those
long, confining windows. Were the curtains linen or lace?
Did the sun fall in heavy, sporadic drops on the floor,
or gather in white slats, secretive and prohibited-
only slipping in through the cracks?
And, were you awake or dreaming as it faded?

I live far from Mercy Street, but I've visited you there.
And sometimes I open my windows and breathe the air you breathed.
It sings to me, the night sky weighted with words and ghosts.
You must have heard some other song. I like to picture you-
A sidewalk prophet on Mercy Street hurling yourself aloft
without a parachute and soaring to the edge of your own green heaven.


*I've been listening to Peter Gabriel who I think is an innovative musician and an incredible writer. He has a song that I love called "Mercy Street" It is about Anne Sexton. I'm not particularly enamored of her poetry - although a lot of other people are, so I'm not discounting her. I think it's just a little too unrelentingly bleak for my taste. But I find her perceptions and story interesting. I wanted to give her a happy ending.