Poem

The Kind Of House

The kind of house that I grew up in
Was the one you could chase a scraggy pup in
And let old Tabby sleep on your bed
This house had the smell of baking bread
And linen fresh from the wind-blown line
And a potbellied stove burning pitchy pine.
The rugs were worn on the creaky floors
Of the many rooms. But the roms had doors
And the doors would shut so a child could lie
With the cat by a wonderful sky
And read or dream or stare at a bird.
For here was a house where nobody'd heard
Of being adjusted: you yelled and fought
And worked and loved. And you sang a lot.
And growing up in this house was such
That you rarely noticed the process much.

~Georgie Starbuck Galbraith~