Michael H. Brownstein


I hold the key to my home,

safe in a pocket.

When they forced me from home,

I kept it.

When they searched me,

they did not find it.

Yes, someone else lives in my house,

strangers who do not welcome me,

strangers who never met me,

strangers who carry with them the myth of ownership,

the house I built with my hands,

cool in the heart of day,

warm as woman’s breath in the night.

I have memories,

but I am now old,

and all I have to pass on

is this key, my key,

to the lock of my home

stolen from me.

Michael H. Brownstein © 2019