Untitled [A house just like his mother’s] 

A house just like his mother’s,
But made of words.
Everything he could remember
Inside it:
Parrots and a bowl
Of peaches, and the bright rug
His grandmother wove.

Shadows also—mysteries
And secrets.
Corridors
Only ghosts patrol.
And did I mention
Strawberry jam and toast?

Did I mention
That everyone he loved
Lives there now,

In that poem
He called “My Mother’s House?”

From City of Poetry by Gregory Orr. Copyright © 2012 by Gregory Orr. Reprinted with permission of Sarabande Books, Inc. All rights reserved.