September 23, 2007

• September 2007

  Slow rain chase indoors
  the cats, dogs, rowdy children
  who make apartment complexes busy
  with the voices of houses that used to be.

  Before divorce, before mom lost her job,
  before the cost of paying all those bills
  demanded the walls of the room with
  yellow paint and glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars.

  Before the primordial soup bubbled
  hot with rolling lumps of trying hard
  to hang on to the smooth sides
  until a new community formed.

  Renters, all, who crowd their shoulders,
  their freezers and china hutches
  into spaces designed to impress college kids
  with bean bag chairs and blow-up mattresses.

  Before dust blew through the canyon.

  Now September rain washes,
  says start again, just like you learned
  in those long ago Septembers of new saddle shoes,
  new pens, new faces, new desk assignments, new plans.

  

  • 4:14 pm
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