NO LOCKS

in my mother's house

doors had no locks

or we forgot to use them,

preferred, Can I come in?

the walls were thin like ice

on autumn morning puddles

no insulated world

the house never silent

the telephone rang

always TV glared

the radio chattered

records tapes blared

a little house

no space to hide in

no attic no garage

no storage shed

no hallway no porch

no upstairs downstairs

always somebody

dropping in

framed in the doorway

with jackets and boots on

No, b'y, I can't stay, just

wanted to see how you were doin'

oil furnace cutting in and out

steady hum in the long winter

the wringer washer twisted

a boiler of oil for chips gurgled

the refrigerator murmured

the fluorescent lights whined

clocks clicked

plumbing sluiced

always somebody going

and coming like a train station

like Tip the dog and his lover Ringo

who thought she lived with us

Skipper said, What are we doing,

heating up all Lynch's Lane?

everybody talked, all the time

at the same time

whether heard or not

performed soliloquies

a dramatic troupe

with kindled hearts

Skipper sang country and western

my brother impersonated TV stars

my sister was a feminist comedian

Nan improvised like Marlon Brando

I wanted to be Frank Capra

Carrie was the live audience

cars spun up Lynch's Lane fast

in order to keep traction

stones spinning

the mill steam whistle moaned

winter played the house

like a percussionist

the house always sweltering

summer night respite in the backyard

spring rain whistled

autumn wind teased

rhythms no poet could name

the house alive, breathed

people always calling to one another

always a sense of being watched

so close, smiling simultaneously

counterfeit and whole-souled

Carrie said, People lived close together

then, we'll never have that again

like she meant it,

like she missed something