I lean outside my window <br />the window at my parents' house, <br />on the 14th floor facing the service alley. <br />I feel at home for the first time in ages. But <br />this is not my home. Not <br />anymore. <br /> <br />I have already studied the old photographs, <br />palmed the old treasures— <br />where did that old wooden idol, Yojo, who <br />used to sit enshrined in the corner, get to? <br />When did that album become scratched? <br />These things were once sacred. These things <br />were once mine. <br /> <br />I used to turn the lights real dim and <br />play that old psychadelia on the Crosby. <br />We used to use flashlights to make
