In those designer homes on TV,
there's no room for prayer flags,
Kwan-Yin cut from a junk mail ad
and thumbtacked to the wood panelled wall,
no thumbtacks at all.
There are no piles of half-read, re-read, soon-to-be read
books next to the bed, beside the wastebasket,
no tissues either that missed the basket,
no magazines opened up to a recipe for Pumpkin Bread
with whole wheat flour, agave nectar and applesauce
on the kitchen counter, though plenty of counter, empty.
There are no birthday cards taped to a doorframe,
no place for unwashed laundry, litter boxes, dirty plates,
burnt toast, yarn scraps, dog-shit covered boots.
Just quiet breath, hands folded to lap,
flat screen TV tuned to the Fireplace Channel,
CD in the player enclosed by an oak entertainment center,
set on repeat-repeat-repeat- to a
copyrighted theme without words,
without staples or a strip of duct tape
to make it home.