In the Shadow of My Old Home

[jdowd]

In the shadow of my old home,
my father sits in a chair
the color of the sea and flips
through the swirling biography
of a tired rocker who traded his
kaleidoscopes for blue jeans.

In the shadow of my old home,
the floor quivers with the thump
of my mother's sewing machine
as she bends in, nose reflected
in the needle point, stitching together
the scattered birthdays of a quilt.

In the shadow of my old home,
my sister and I argue
over television and music and poetry
and cars and computers and music.
We never allow the blue fabric of our
pride to pull back and reveal we agree.

In the shadow of my old home,
three cats and one dog
shed fur into fingers
that dance in patient circles
between their ears. They smile
like children in the summer sun.

There is little noise here now.
One cat ticks her nails across
the floor at an offbeat stutter.
No children argue about
cars or computers, but speak
quietly, soberly. They speak
at a distance. They speak
like adults. My father's chair
disolved into an imprint on the
carpet, lined with black and white
and gray fur. The needle of my
mother's sewing machine reflects
the steel air that hangs around it.
Black poison veins of mildew
pulse up shower walls to blue paint
that curls away from white plaster.
My mother, enshrined by magazines and
books like "Managing Divorce,"
looks up at a broken clock, and
says "I think I will have to sell,"
In the shadow of my old home.