The House

The lounge chair in the entrance was imported from Turkey.
The spotless floor is marble, the playful mixing of
white and black, joining together and then pulling apart again.
The living room invites you to watch, but not join.
The game is already set and full.
Ripples, smoothed away in the blood red fabric of a rug,
placed  to make these borders into a model home,
so easily skewed off grid by clumsy feet.
Guests can have such clumsy feet.
A polished raven black banister outlining lacquered cream stairs,
leading to dim-lit bedrooms, where the charade of wealth ends.

Up there, home means fighting and sleeping and crying
and kissing and staying home sick for days.
Bowls of fake fruit and silver leaves won’t be found,
rather, half empty bottles and jeans with holes in the knees,
            tossed to the floor, that even the lowest of guests will never see.
No silk curtains, tied aside with ribbons to impose a scene,
but stained silk sheets, crumpled and lazily half-drawn for the use of
            a daughter that is only home at night and a cat, 
who’s favorite time is the night.
A fur coat from Nice hangs in the hallway downstairs that no one
dares to wear,
but up in these bedrooms, worn-out and ragged
      jackets and sweaters, thrown into closets and to the ends of beds,
are used the next day or to comfort and clothe in the chill of midnight.
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