The Home

A poem I am more pleased with.

The Home

He takes actions,
holds them close to his
chest, feeling their weight
resting against his rib cage.

And the glasses come out
upside down, and sometimes
he rubs the inside with his
fingers to see if they’re clean.

The music pushes firmly
on his shoulders as he
stumbles around, his hands
stroking the walls.

The cupboard under the stairs
seems to big, and the living
room swims in forgotten
gestures – until he sinks

to the ground. His mouth is open
to the carpet, his hands knead
the fabric, and his eyes are wet
and warm like upside down glasses.

 

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