Blue-black thoughts down the hallway,
stucco green bleeds to braided frayed through smoke and sunflower prints of the front room.
As decaying paternal, maternal afterthoughts meld into the yellowed fabric, smoldering drowned.
I walk through with my head bowed.
The dining room spins
78 revolutions of hard plastic music playing holiday meals while jig saw puzzle pieces cover the table almost done.
I walk through with my head bowed.
The kitchen coffee pot boils avocado on the burner percolating over meat loaf
dying in the oven while government cheese lies waiting on the counter near cookie dough raw for lunch.
I walk through with my head bowed.
Breakfast nook misnomer, dinner occasionally and beverages more often.
I walk past with my head bowed.
Through the telephone hallway ...
... Past the door to the basement stairs - pungent with jarred pickles, peaches, pears;
heavy with homemade beer and wine, vacuum packed fermenting foretells of drunken harvests to come and cub scout meetings gone by in back.
... Past the master bedroom - king sized cocoon of festering parental psyches and
Johnny nightly through the walls.
... Past the bathroom - haunted by the ghosts of childhood croup humidification and stroke-forged handicapped baths for Mom.
Past all that and up the stairs to suffocating sanctuary.
Tangerine shag with
Farrah Cheryl Clash plastering walls stained of summer heat.
Eight track punk salvation and
Royal keystroke catharsis feed my aspirations a feast of anthemic illusions, hard bitten fidelity.
Carroll Bangs Thompson summer nights awake in bed devouring to bursting words come to life and love of language unbounded.
I lay down with my head unbowed at last.
