Eukaryota

The question of your place or mine is problematic when you live in a house full of ex-junkies.
It’s a nice house, perfect for entertaining, on a quiet street,
surrounded by tall trees.
It’s hardwood floors polished clean.
My queen bed is warm and well made.
As are the men who live here, but still.
There is too the question of time and money.
I have little enough of either, though I put both to good use.
As example, see above.
Yet, in fairness, we’ll list these in the liabilities column.

As to assets,
I know myself well enough for classification:
A full life in swing with many friends,
1,809 if Facebook is to be believed.
I make good honest food, and rich coffee.
I do fumbling good work in my community.
Fitting to my Scots-Irish upbringing.
I clean bathrooms, answer the crisis line.
I have a car, a phone that rings, a frame for aforementioned bed.
I write better than some and listen with increasing empathy.
Lacking any wish to relieve you from your distress
Yet able to provide comfort as you do battle with it.
I am learning to rest well, work well.
To love myself fully, freely.
I’ve kept at least one houseplant alive through many moves.
I speak fluent dog and I’m learning the more supine language of cats.
My children, young men themselves, respond to my texts.
I carry no baggage that could be flagged by Customs.
There are visas in my passport.
That last maybe a gentle lie.
The embers of a candle sputtering between a woman’s thighs.