Monday, January 20, 2014

Old Home

I fetched a dusty book
from under the bed right before
the cream of pop spangled the throw.
I plastered the wall with crayon drawings
and battery powered devices that provided
relief from the tension of work and people.
The wainscoting had a terrific flare
in the otherwise bland room. I occupied the apartment
for the better part of a half of a quarter
of a century. The familiarity made the interior
navigable, even with closed eyes, or no moon nights.
The smell of toast burning
was a sign that the heart was in trouble.
Creaking floors gave the radio feedback.
If all goes according to my plans, a forest
will fill the highway and I will once
again hear birds above the roar of malice.
In other news, it feels like my bones
have been replaced with snow; the crisp
icy kind that people slip on.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Beautiful poem.

2:06 PM  

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