the winter that wasn’t ended
when i woke up alone on a queen sized bed
sprawled out on a mattress that we shared monthly payments to
-your job says we can’t use you anymore
-she says you’re just existing-
-the oldest son insists you’ve accomplished nothing in life
the plague came down like the snow that never did that winter
face-masks tumbled in the wind of empty parking lots
Lines of people wearing rubber gloves Going around
the buildings like black and white soup kitchens photos
I used to see in encyclopedias
I was Flourishing on cheap gas and abandoned streets.
get out you leper you fucking nigger get out get out
When you grow up with ten siblings you dream starry eyed of the day you’ll finally be
so that dark day arrived on a sun splattered concrete floor of a storage unit
where everything that you own doesn’t even fill up a 4×10 box
every move in life, you thought was always your last.
1.The three bedroom home on the cup de sac. 2.The apartment on top of the bar with
the loud music and police lights. 3.The warm top bunkbed that you shared with a brother below.
4.The room at the top of the Victorian mansion by the ocean.
5.Vegetables, flowers and the white dog.
with every move you lost a little bit more of something materialistic
and something more in the promise of steady ‘home’.
and probed till they agreed the cancer isn’t growing anymore
then the nephew wearing a suit might as well accused you
of murder. The evidence was simple:
your music and books are still in boxes waiting for a home.