Feels Like Home to Me

I thought it would be funny to juxtapose the post from early this morning (see below) with a poem I wrote last year for extra credit. It's a parody on a 17th century type of poetry that praises a home or dwelling. I clearly switched it up...

To Mayfield Thirteen

Most Definitely, dear Mayfield, thou art not the envy of all,
For better furnishings we could find at our local mall.
Of ten tiny bedrooms you boast,
Which would seem a brothel to most.
Day after day we fight for time in one of two bathrooms
In which we desire space to groom.
The temperature in my room is never quite right
Because over the thermostat we always do fight.
The floor I dare not touch with feet bare
For who knows what disease might be living there.
Within our oven, food we cannot cook,
As we do not appreciate the resulting scorch-ed look.
The tiny sink is always piled high
With dishes so dirty I want to cry.
When I open cupboards I must cover my head
From falling dishes -- oh, the bruises I dread.
But alas the school year has come to an end,
And from you, dear Mayfield, my belongings I do send.
Next year I will enjoy my room in Towers,
in which from fear I will not have to cower.
(April 27, 2006)

Ha! It's so funny to go back and read that... I enjoyed it. I hope you did too.