Guard the crayon scribbles that ran from the
light switch plate cover to the dusty old baseboards
and hold me accountable for every scratch on the hardwood.

There were countless race cars swallowed
by the AC grates. The house where I got my first hand pop and my lips zipped tight . Wrists don’t sit limp. Mom’s voice had bass
“Get your hands off your imagination”, rattled the walls.

I never kept possessions close lest weed crumbs
fall out of grims fairy tales. Just beyond the portiere,
mom’s man knew pawn shops ate new VCRs like lumber to a chipper.

Think about how He held on to the phone cord snatched from the wall
swung around his head in a tremendous performance.
I laughed at this tragicomic melodrama of abuse. I still do.

After the show the house had the deepest closets for me to sit.
Clutch steak knife, clutch cast iron, clasped hands, right thumb on top.
The house knew to hold mommas perfume lingering in the coat closet to be my shroud.

Or the old mold smell in the attic to wait things out.
That sickly sweet miasma that makes me nostalgic
for the dark and the damp. I’d hide in the penumbra as the hatch was cracked.

I like to think that house still holds on today.
Foundation to shingles standing tall and proud.
Cause if that house had slipped its grip even a little, i
would’ve fallen straight through the cracks.