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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
