The homes are what we leave behind
our breath remains, as does our use –
arguments hang heavy, old oils crack
across this painted roof. We wake
in ordinary bedsheets, only to fall back
again and more. We keep home still
yet somewhere, old keys rattle
aching to unlock old doors.
A row of brightly coloured houses
top this town, that spreads out slow
to depress suburbs, chuffed too long
with lives drawn in glorious shades. Yet
stripped down as sodium lamplight
throws itself, more reasons to stay
inside, the homes we leave behind.