Dad’s carlight floods into 

my semi-basement bedroom. 
It’s midnight, or nearly, 
and I slip my cold and clammy
hands underneath the doughy
folds of a polyester comforter,
on my bed of old springs
and pin needles, same mattress
I’ve had since I was born. This room
is always a bit too cold, but the
balmy southern heat creeps
even into this nest I’ve built.
I cannot write my way out 
of these walls. 
So maybe this is it:
a place never quite my own,
but don’t the peeling doorframes 
too closely resemble the red 
sandpaper of my cheeks?
The cobwebs on the back porch
house creatures unknown.