Location

I am my home, my real estate. Memory contests the deed and title, would force me to live in recall, a phantom condominium of fate.

I am the shack of me, a self with rooms, a past out back, an attic that looms, a pantry with brooms.

This is why blankets at 4:13 a.m. feel (why rain badgering roof over the roof of me sounds) so fine, appeal.