Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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The boy left muddy shoes beneath every chair. The man lines his boots
After my son moves north, his room becomes mostly floor. Tape marks remain on the wall.
A red number gathers in the corner of the morning. One becomes five.
You are leaving. I know this the way I know weather— not from the forecast
There was a morning— I don't remember which one— when you walked into the kitchen and I looked up.
She wore the backpack like a turtle shell—too big for the body, perfect for the bravery.
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