high street

i learned how to collect favorite houses
from my mom. there was one we would pass
each time we drove to visit my great aunts.
she would point it out & say,
"i would love to live there."
i think it's an idealistic impulse.
the thought that "this structure could save us."
for her it was an old brick home perched above 
the forest creek. in jim thorpe, 
high street is full of my favorite houses.
i collect them like snow globes.
shake them & watch the feathers rain down.
most of them are air bnbs so most of them
are selling miniature fantasies 
of this mountain. i want to knock 
on the doors. i want to ask, "have you see
my legs?" or "have you seen my singing?"
come inside & i know that's exactly 
where they'll be. piled in the fireplace.
setting on the kitchen table like ripe bananas.
i used to flirt with the idea of paying
for an air bnb just for one night
even though my apartment was
just up the street. i never did. i think i knew
it would destroy me to find out
a new home would not fix me. instead,
i keep up the yearning. i walk high street
every time i visit town. look down 
at broadway & all the little people
with their doorbell lives. i have a vision
of my mother driving to the forest house
all by herself. knocking on the door
& begging to walk through just once.
the wooden floor boards sighing beneath
her every step. i hope if she did
that it was everything she thought it would be.