Renting Rooms.

They rose to the sky
wooden mountains confined
to square footage.
Two stories high.
Yards that fit snugly
into my back pocket.
We walked,
one panting
and tied to a string
and one wishing
to be free from everything.

This dog,
Someone else's drooling canine,
not mine--
leads and pulls me
to places
where I can hope to
pay the bills.
Where I can make bread
and wait for the yeast
to rise.
Where you can afford
a pair of red wool socks
to replace the hole-y ones
your mother made for you
in college.

Turn up the heat;
the temperature of our house
should reflect
the temperature of our hearts.

Drywalled beams and nails
and happy slapping dog tails
sleep
while the house is dark
save the spark
from something in your eyes
that has never known sleep
but does its burning
amidst churning shadows
and still air
and peaceful breathing.