a San Francisco home

(This attempt is somewhat new: I'm trying to finish a train of thought within a few days. I'm trying to move from the habit of not finishing a thought. I have many trains of thoughts that didn't reach their destinations. They were close but didn't come fully together to give life to the journey. They are just sitting, waiting.
Also, I'm experimenting with picture poems)


                                                                           ****

I turned the clear handle on the kitchen side door painted white

 To match this beautiful house, three floors remodeled, 34 picture windows

   Faced steep, cold steps with faded spilled paint stars and pet hairballs

      Step by step down into the guts, moist, tumultuous, brimming musty

       Where now? I wondered at the foot, swallowed by the churning memories

         Of lives lived, piled freely in garage. A speed limit sign, lamps, shades, a safe

          Bags, tables, stepping stool, baby mattress, bike pump. A tarp underside,

           Hiding more. Marcia, flower child of 90’s, the wall peeling off its secret scribbles

          Of lives being lived above, digesting the imbibed in closed off basement garage

        In this beautiful home, standing tall with siblings on a warm wide street

      Spotted a door at left, sunlight streaming from once used pet plastic cutout

    Hesitantly opened a creaky latch on that wood-naked side door, it took me into

  A stone path, a turn, 3 steps down- into a sky bright yard in a canopy of trees

A patio, long lawn chairs surrounded by small wilderness, home to 2 lively blue jays.

  Came back up the same way a while later, closed the white door and Oh that’s what

   The bells on the handle are for, if an intruder comes the wrong way up, we will know.

     You fancied the bells and took them to swing in the air for a while

       This is an AirBnB house, we need to put things back where they belong

       We’ll only take our memories, I’d like to remember this small stool by the window

       Which you fancy, sometimes sit to watch me cook with a pleasant expectant look

      As if this spot, this house, this street, soil, sun and all matter came about to poise

     Now, to meet up in you. But you don’t hold on to baggage however beautiful 

  So I’ll set it out, free myself except for the small wilderness of a memory of a memory

                                                                          ****