Ode to the first place I lived alone,

Dawn Leas

You weren’t dressed in shag carpeting

        or decorated in 70’s harvest gold appliances.

You didn’t smell of pot, weren’t littered with drop cloths

        and paint cans, hammers, a table saw.

You weren’t introduced to me by a woman in leopard-print

        sleep pants and black tank, a vape nestled in her cleavage.

You were light as meringue. Plaster walls with new white paint

       and doors like a bodybuilder’s neck. Big windows

       that let in the scent of fall rain.

       Your owner required three references and called each one.You were built to survive. A flood that flowed

       through you uninvited, an angry fist in your wall,

       tenants who never appreciated your luxurious closets.

You smelled of just-installed carpeting, bathroom cleaner.

       Later, of pine or cucumber melon. Thieves or eucalyptus, sex and love.

You were quiet, still empty the first night we spent together. You and me,

       a backpack, garbage bag stuffed with clothes and towels. I slept

       on the bedroom floor with a comforter and pillow.

You never judged the boxes of books hauled up three flights to your built-ins,

       the fog I brought into your uncluttered space.

You believed in the fact that time didn’t exist. That memory was bendable,

      that you could stitch my heart and de-clutter my mind. Soon we breathed

      in tandem.  Soon you taught me how to survive.