This is a letter to my aunt's house.
Old and rickety, still covered in remnants of the seventies.
To the forgotten cries of an infant,
to distractions I myself created.
This is a letter to the cramped kitchen,
To a large dining-room and forever cluttered table.
This is a letter to the wide expanse of backyard,
an unused swing set.
To the overgrown gardens and ancient shed.
This is a letter to the betrayal that seeps into the house through the shingles.
This is a letter to the lost trust and the overstuffed couch.
To a staticky television that stays on all night.
This is a letter to the night that descends too fast into the bedroom.
To the bed only slept in on one half.
This is a letter to a house barely hospitable.