“The house I grew up in”
 
belongs to someone else now,
and I don’t know
what colour the walls are
anymore, or if the basement
still leaks when the rain rambles
about its great grandfather
nearly drowning Noah,
or how I can’t forget getting drunk
in the kitchen with my mother
when we drank all the Christmas Eve beers
we bought to offer guests,
but I am quite certain
that the beers taste different enough today
to admit that the past
is all we ever truly own.