With smoke in my mouth
and a wine glaze shimmering
over my eyes like a river in the wind,
I wait for this home to grow old.
For the windows to stream tears
as they imitate the rain,
for the fruit in its bowls
to turn to Fool’s Gold,
for the cats, perhaps,
to shed their bones like vermin in the corner.
For this guitar to sing out
its own lonesome eulogy,
for the doors to fall to rust,
for the fire to burn itself out,
the bed to turn to loveless rust.
For the clothes that hang
in the shape of my body
to drop in denial, disintegrate,
for the curtains to droop
in a clown’s sad smile,
for the radiators to excrete
their inhuman fluids and sigh.
For the table legs to shake,
arthritic, and break,
for the attic to groan
in chorus with winter weather,
for the carpet to roll itself in fear
and reveal the cold bones of this cell.
For the bottles along the wall
to drink their contents, desperate,
and fall in haphazard splendour.
For the garden to grow inwards,
making weeds of my wallpaper,
moss of my memories.
For the ceiling to hang like a veil
with the weight of its age.
For the endless music in this head
to fall steadily silent instead.
For the pulse in my neck, my wrist,
to slow and leave me for dead.
For these lips and cheeks once kissed
to fall away, decay, and still.
For this home to grow old, as I do,
without fear of future
or penitence for past.
For this life to last.
Copyright ©: Shaunna Harper
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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