Home is twenty-six feet long,
maybe eight feet wide.
Complete with faux wood
panel, cracked by age
and water damage-stained.

The previous owners tried
to paint the once sodden ceiling.
The sporadic white patches
hinting at a tired father’s
attempt to fix it all.

Sometimes I can feel the life
this RV had before we inherited
all of its projects. The wallpaper,
the cabinets, the colors,
all chosen with great 1980s care.

We’ve only driven her once
to get gas and propane.
Finally, the water is hot—
small spaces make you
appreciate small things—

But every few weeks we scooch
to let the dead grass recover.
The first patch is starting
to show hints of green again,
validating the time passed.

We planned this life to save
money for six months,
but if it rolls into a year
or more, I wouldn’t complain.
We have everything we need:

Two plates, two cups,
two forks, two spoons,
two knives, two cats,
two people hopelessly in love
with a life together.

Now there’s a fresh coat of paint
and we installed our own cabinets.
Someday we’ll get good enough
to drive her without
our belongings in free fall.

Until then, we’ll track time
through a calendar of bare patches
in our parents’ front yard.
As the saying goes,
home is where the heart is.