These days, I remember so many hiding places
My childhood was pretty much filled with them

Warm quiet places, away, alone; so alone
I could hear my own breathing, the wheeze,

And the whisper of the stories I told myself,
Played all the parts, did the voices, the scenery.

There was the attic and, of course, the coal cellar,
Abandoned places, full of abandoned things,

 Haunted places, even alone they seemed crowded
As if others were there breathing and speaking.

There was the far back end of the front hall closet
Where it tapered down to a space just big enough

To fit, to sit in the silence of coats, large empty things,
Generations’ worth of outer appearance, hiding,

And, the dark of the back stairs where they turned;
A wider, green carpeted step I could almost curl onto.

There were beds to crawl under, a loft in the garage
That held so little weight I always knew I was alone.

Even the almost completely dark of these places was
Calming, opening or closing my eyes to the same

To the same limitless nature of these small places,
Small places opening and closing, welcoming me in

Growing just large enough to accommodate me and
My stories, the escape and hiding places they were.

-- J. K. Durick