MOVING OUT ON MY OWN

By John Grey

--

I was out of the house,

on my own at last.

“You’ll regret it,” my parents said.

My first apartment

boasted crates as chairs

and a mattress for a bed.

Its three rooms were so cramped

it felt like the walls

were hugging me.

I didn’t have a car

which was just as well

as there was no allotted parking space

for my hovel within a hovel.

I ate haphazardly, slept restlessly,

sat uncomfortably,

entertained unfortunately.

I didn’t just live there,

I became the place,

stuffy in Summer,

rattling like heat-pipes

when December rolled around.

I lived (if that’s the word) there

for a year.

It was more like I was confined to the place.

The landlord was my warden.

I was sentenced to paying him rent money

on the first of every month.

I was finally released by a better job,

a second-hand Toyota

and a bigger place to call home.

I still had crates as chairs

and a mattress for a bed.

But I could move

without stepping over or around them.

I was out of the house.

I was on my own.

I was almost out of range of their warnings.