“re-olded” with nostalgia
Fireplaces burn
down back doors.
The banister is still
steeper than the steps.
Landings float me
away.
"Pass the potatoes."
Is a dinner table
whisper.
Smiles are sufficient.
But that's what I can't grasp.
* * *
The card table seems small
for twenty.
The staircase, drab and
practical.
Not enough seats
in this basement.
It's dark too.
Can't keep on the
lights,
but I thought my smile
was enough.
"Pass the potatoes."
Is a midnight snack
scream.
before the sun comes up
I drink a cocktail of moonlight.
As my cherry orbits the craters
concaving in the rim of my glass.
The flakiness from my straw or
the residue left in my conscious.
The weight of the world, unfurled,
a hallway rug consumed by the haze,
I wander the checkerboard floor, but
it was the chess piece. but
it was the last move. but
labyrinth walls don't show
the despair. but
The floor will do.
So should another drink.
A special drink.
I drink a shot of darkness.
Before the sun comes up...
with anger and nostalgia
I was the pill
to your cup of water.
Used by a person
who was hurting, but wanted
to hurt someone more.
I was the needle
to your drug injector.
A distraction to
someone's mind
from within itself.
Alas,
I was the crutch
to your leg.
The one to hold someone
up, so they could touch
the sky.
I was used...