lillian the home poet

Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.       
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.

Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.

Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.

Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.

Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.

Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.

We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.