by Emma Behrendt
the squirrel sings an ode. Photo credit by C. Finch
That janky smoke detector sounds off every time you cook pancakes on a Saturday morning.
And you can only lock the back door if you put your hip into it.
I’ve grown accustomed to hearing the mumbles of your conversations through the French doors and knowing
exactly who is home just by the sound of your footsteps. The small things you do,
bring my mail up to my room
drive through State Street traffic just to drop me off in the February snow. How I look out the kitchen window
and recognize the same three cars in the driveway. I’ve spent countless hours
on that window seat facing the neighbor’s backyard,
the tree stump in the corner and the weeds climbing up the rotted fence
squirrels playing tag on the powerlines.
Inside,
the triangular shower that inevitably floods the floor
and the basement that is intended for daylight hours only.
The first place I have unpacked and stayed.
Where my backpack is for school only
it’s uncomfortable to stay yet I have loved every moment,
and if it’s okay with you,
I would like to stay here forever.
In the back room
Of 1036.
***
Emma Behrendt is an English major in her senior year at the University of Michigan. This poem is an ode to her run-down college house, to all of its quirks and the sweet memories she’s made there.
***
This is an original poem, brought to you by Poet Tree Town, an Ann Arbor-based poetry-in-public initiative and celebration of local Washtenaw poets. Find out more about Poet Tree Town on Instagram and Facebook, or say hello at poettreetowna2@gmail.com.
