I lean outside my window
the window at my parents' house,
on the 14th floor facing the service alley.
I feel at home for the first time in ages. But
this is not my home. Not
anymore.
I have already studied the old photographs,
palmed the old treasures—
where did that old wooden idol, Yojo, who
used to sit enshrined in the corner, get to?
When did that album become scratched?
These things were once sacred. These things
were once mine.
I used to turn the lights real dim and
play that old psychadelia on the Crosby.
We used to use flashlights to make
