I feel like I lack my mother's
arms and yet, as an adult,
they would not do - I think
it is the care and the safety -
the front door with the storm
doors, the large iron key,
the two huge bolts, one
into the crossbar and one
into the stone floor -
and the inside door with
Yale and chain - and
the back door protected by
the porch - all locked
up safe and secure, and
5 people in the house.

Now I come home, battered
by the day, abused by
the people in a place of
edges and blades
and there is silence
and no-one here.  The forever
days until I too
am gone, used, done, been
as if it were enough
as if it mattered.

As if the world were green
and one small mouse 
eating poison.

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