on noticing all the walls in my apartment are white

have you ever given your bones
to a stranger? i met my landlord once.
him & his wife stood in the living room
while families scurried around his house.
we were all hungry. one girl said,
"you could sleep here," to her daughter.
a man touched the wall & left a soft smudge
with his dirt veiled hands. was he working
in a garden? taking apart the guts of a truck?
when we moved in the smudge was still there.
finding rice in the kitchen drawers
from the last owner. ant traps. a hole
where a landline would go. the houses
on delaware street talk to one another.
shoulder to shoulder. they discuss
match boxes & the wind-blown garbage 
that collects in the rocks by trout creek. 
i tell this house that is my house
& also not & never my house that 
if i were allowed to, i would paint
the walls a light purple. i would get down
on my knees. i do not wash away
the hand print of the man. sometimes
he lives here too. have you ever given
your bones to a stranger? all the sentences
where i tell friends, "my house" & 
"my home." why is this not my house,
my home? not in the sense of blood 
& property but in the sense that 
no one should own the rivers. in the sense that
in the dead of night i should be able
to wake up & paint the walls lavender.
laugh with the ghosts. find the man 
standing there, his face a flower. 
invite him inside & talk about all the walls
that have surrounded us. all the places
we have called home that have not been.