Poems and Houses, a poem I wrote in 9th grade *Do not copy*

Poems and Houses                                                       GM

If every poem is a house,

and every stanza is a room,

then you are in the foyer.

The door is open and inviting,

the plush rug is long,

it goes on and on and on...

and then it ends.

And we're in the living room,

plush chairs, hardwood floors,

and fat colorful pillows.

But nobody's there, only dust.

The dust imbedded in the pillows,

and in the cracks  between the boards.

Except for a line, where everyone passes on through,

just like you.

On to the kitchen.

Warm aromas, delicious smells,

pots bubbling, pans sizzling,

a parent calling "Dinner!"

You hear feet pounding down,

down,

down the stairs,

As you ascend the staircase,

    you peer through the corridors,

           pushing open doors, skimming,

                    skimming through the rooms,

                           skimming through the stanzas.

Into the master bedroom you go.

king size bed,

fluffy pillows, there as a facade,

to hide stiff necks,

aching backs,

and a sleepless night.

A massive TV hides a dent,

where they hit the bed frame on the wall.

A bed skirt throws shadows over the dust,

untouched for a decade,

and winter clothes,

much too small to be worn.

Back to the hall,

just for a moment.

Between rooms,

between stanzas.

A child's room.

Bright colors,

simple furniture,

plush animals.

Dolls strewn about,

tiny dresses abandoned,

hiding in the corner.

The bed,

too short for you,

too long for her.

A  messy quilt,

a stuffed animal,

a puppy dog,

tucked in lovingly.

In the hall,

you turn on a light.

It is nearly dark, 

and you can't see.

A small bathroom,

powder blue,

a sink too low for comfort,

juvenile shower curtains.

A tube of cobalt Crest,

lays on the counter,

open, spilling.

Back

     down

         the

             stairs.

You peer into a dark room,

it smells of gasoline, and chalk.

A room long abandoned,

yet it is all but empty.

A lawnmower,

its blades going dull and rusting,

a motorized car,

pink, covered windshield to tires,

in Barbie stickers.

A box of old,

powdery,

stubs of chalk,

a rainbow three times over.

You look around,

you've gone through every room,

you've read every stanza.

You saw the house,

you're in the back yard.

You finished the poem.