“Home” by Alan Hogan


There was the one
With the cerulean blue carpet
So perfect we said
For a place in Florida

There was the one with the metal roof
On the back porch
Where the rain would play piano
Softly into the late hours

These were houses but not home
Home was a place
With wooden paneling in the den
Where with the bedroom window open
If the wind was just right
You could hear the trucks on I-80
Singing in their lusty baritones

And where we sat in the basement
Listening to music
And imagining ourselves as being popular