I own this place—
or it owns me.
Here is where I grew awhile,
stumbling through
the unaware
of this one's style
and paperbound hyperbole
hid within a smile.
Here lies the ghost of LaGalette
while Stiles and stone prevail.
Floorboards bare a cup, a chair
exterior worn pale.
No reading from a further room,
crowded tables, voices, faces
placed between ideal and walls,
steel-string guitar and banjo cases,
espresso steam and talk of war.
Camembert and Grenadine.
Cigarette ashes on the floor.
I turn the knob—
each blade, each sod
and concrete stair
reclaim a part of me.
Not found in deed
of form or site,
still, more the rightful heir.
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