I Have a Childhood Home

The basement I was born in is now a walk-down bistro. I was told about the new use, try to imagine it as a remodeling of that old place. I dream now of yellow caterpillars on green leaves, and green caterpillars on yellow leaves, of the flake of flock wallpaper peeling in the night the walls rustling with indwellers. There are shadows rats, they molt, and by the dim light of dawn are only bones under a mattress. I wonder about that Bistro does it close at 2 or 3 in the morning, does it then rattle unseen with the echoes of asthmatic ghosts, does it bloom with the bilious foliage of wheezing lungs? I can imagine its catchpenny lights, its frontage blinking with blue and yellow neon, an electric fizz spitting statically. I am at the table near the restroom ready to run into the mold riddled closet to shiver away hours of candle lit psychosomatic creeps. The patrons seem to be laughing loudly at nothing at all, my parents are screaming louder just to be heard they smash their words through slamming doors. Mother yells about never returning but we all did, just at different times when the clocks changed to heartbeats. I look out of a blind window, there was not nor is a window. The dank dark crawls around on its one hundred and one legs.