When the Tourists Go Home
when the tourists go home
someone special sleeps in the hall
most of the time he smells like wet grass
once so full of life, he licked my face
but now, he has become just an old friend
winding my heart around his long pink tongue
he used to hang out at the firehouse with dad
now dad says, Free, he’s not much use to anyone,
or so dad says
but dad is now lost in the war
the war of words
between mom and dad
where lawyers are shadows and salacious lies hide
tucked in tight
between the lines
of a separation
but even lawyers can’t separate memories
the smiles seem so strange these days
in yellowed pictures under plastic sleeves
once, they were new
and we were all happy
before mom took her
and dad took me
and the bank took the rest
the rest is rusted as an old spoke wheel
junkyard fancy
fancy words on long law paper
jails, and courtroom wrecks
ships crash on childhood rocks
inside our burning house
and broken chains
rotting in the rain
where the old play set sits
abandoned and ugly
as harsh words
explode in the courtroom
while thick smoke fires
in my parent's eyes
burn bright red
and ink stains the document
turning us to drift free
like broken boats
crashing on a hostile shore
my parents chased love away one night
when blood flowed
on the kitchen floor
and the cops came
splitting mom and dad
and us up in separate
corners of town
closing the door
on family
and fury
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