If I Were a Poet

Everyone lives in a house made of poems.

Your house might be brick,
with a yard of grass,
and black iron gates
through which guests pass.

Or it might be
a city penthouse,
a jigsaw puzzle of concrete and steel.
Each room with a 360 view.

Or three in a row
where you and your bro
walk the streets
in search of beats.

My house is barely a poem:
A tent,
with stars above me.
Only punctuation marks
between me and God.