Who am I to tell you how best to climb
out of the beast?
When I have made home
of the boneyard in its belly?
Wouldn't that make me
the worst kind of hypocrite?
To have welcomed you
by throwing a block party,
us sitting beside the swampy entrails, eating barbecue and gossiping
about sobriety gentrifying the neighborhood.
Here, you can be as messy as you need,
all of your responsibilities spilling out
across the makeshift lawn like discarded auto parts,
nobody cares how much shit you've got
piled on your front porch,
that your chain linked fence is sagging,
that your trash can is overflowing
with emptied bottles. This beast
that has swallowed us whole
has given us a place
to lay down home sweet home mats,
to paint the walls indigo,
hang handmade bottle cap masterpieces
above the mantle,
this beast that has us in its belly
has offered a place to self destruct
without scrutiny, so who am I to tell you
how best to throw sheets over the furniture,
to cut the power, to pack the suitcases and go when I know this has become
the only home where you aren't afraid
of leaving the door unlocked,
here we have a block party every night,
no one keeps count of how much
you've already had-sloppy is better than sober.
Here, we are all digesting.
Here, we all find bones
that look like someone we used to be,
makes us feel guilty about it.