Homestead #3

Did this old house pick me, the one with a limp?
It’s reflective you know.
The porch boards merged with the grass like a bad haircut.
The front door regularly stuck.
Sounds of the squirrels skittering across the roof, slipping into the attic
I could hear them above me while resting on my lumpy mattress.
Nothing too particular here.
In the kitchen, the empty coffee can where we kept loose change
Lays empty on the table with a note scratched in graphite
On the back of an envelope, “gone for eggs”.