we are, all of us, looking

to call some place home

and find a space in which our

portraits can

paint the walls and we

can be looked upon as

worthy—even if the haven wrapping

us in warmth

is only the burn of a soup bowl

against our too eager fingertips.

And when we unlock

the stubborn door of 308B

we soon forget to notice

the stained carpet

or the shouting down the hall,

even if it’s something past exhaustion

when the light slants

through dirty blinds

before we can even fall asleep.

But we forget to notice our

own undoing

and clench onto the hope that

we are, all of us, looking

to the day

when the week

doesn’t end after forty hours, and our

dreams aren’t tumbling around the inside

of a dollar-fifty washing machine.

And we watch the hair spiral

around in the tub

that refuses to drain and

wonder

if someone, if anyone even, 

would dare to hold us if they knew

just how long we’ve waited

to be looked upon

and thought of as worthy

to be looked upon.