To My Levitt House – by Vicki Iorio
You were the house my parents took me to
after I was born. From crib to single bed,
grade school to college
I came home to you
every day. When my parents moved
their bedroom to the finished
attic, I snuck boys in. I wrote
poetry on my faux French Cinderella
desk; first in marble notebooks
then on the IBM Selectric, my graduation gift.
I remember you always being sunny.
Marriage took me away. To angry houses.
To flood and fire.
When Dad died, Mom sold you
to a contractor that flipped houses.
She left the contents and ran away.
To her you were a storm.