Home Is Where You Hang Your Hat

Lynda LaRocca

 

My uncle used to tell me,

home is where you hang your hat,

and I’d think, if you only knew

the places I’ve hung mine—

in the back of a puke-green Volkswagen van

(but then again, who hasn’t?),

on a playground slide

(don’t even ask),

one midnight on a beach

in the Bahamas

with some guy named Mike,

those waves kept rising, pounding—

’til the sand fleas

wrecked the mood.

In my boyfriend’s dorm,

a mattress on the floor,

his roommate’s mother

on a Sunday, early, suddenly

she’s standing there.

(Why Izzy gave his mom a key,

he never could explain.)

And she’s glaring down at us,

her nostrils flaring,

boyfriend snoring,

me flat on my back, buck naked,

but I always was polite.

“Oh good morning, Mrs. Dubin,”

I can still remember saying.

Now much older, slightly wiser,

I don’t hang my hat as often.

When I do, it’s in a king-size

with room service,

penthouse view.

And I always tip quite well;

I’m still polite.