Friday, April 22, 2011

Poem: Three Houses

Socrates feels for the switch...
Damned old circuits,
could be the whole block.
He peers out the pulled curtain,
the old plate glass
like a freeze-frame waterfall
flashed by lightening.
He feels the old walls again and
smells the floor furnace burning dust.

Thoughts of childhood...
elbows on the window ledge
at grandma's house
during a hail storm;
she got a new roof after that.

Hand along the wall to the back door,
this old glass like carnival mirrors.

Finally the kitchen light comes back
like a camera flash.
The sink knobs turn backward
for a glass of water.
Flashes of a last-minute party
not-even planned...

...tastes like a rusty nail
biting the back of his throat.
The full glass is emptied back
into the sink with revulsion.
The water at his parent's house
tasted so good, so pure.
The midnight glass fulls as a teen
after a hard night of drinking,
cherished like liquid gold
soothing a rough liquored throat...

Going away parties always hurt
–aww, come on one more,
we'll never see you again...
Another flash takes out the lights again
and brings in a solitary drink of failure,
an unwelcomed conclusion
tasting a bit like sour tea.

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