Losing Home

This was meant to be written--I found the pen--now its past-driven…


We’re losing home, where we used to stay
Can't walk into the room
Where mom and daddy used to lay
No more chances to touch that rose bush thats damned to stay
Even though Momma Rose tried to kill that bush
In the past, now decades away
(it still don’t sit up straight to this day)
No more memories triggered when I walk into the kitchen
I remember how our new addition made me feel like we should’ve been on How I’m Livin’
No more stomping and running up and down bare stairs
No more can I see the pink room where I said my prayers
(and kissed a boy there…)
But we’ll still have our memories—
Me and my sis would stay up late
Telling stories, eating candy and recording our original songs on cassette tape
Doing all sorts of things that would make our Mom mad
Like listening to that Richard Pryor record our dad had that made us laugh
No more hanging in the basement where the ceiling’s too low
Something our cousin would always forget—he’d hit his head
Sending me and sis into a row
No more harmonicas in the China cabinet
No more rubber bullets lodged in nasal cavities
No more hiding behind the fridge from Momma’s belt
No more hands of Five-hundred being dealt
No more trips to Indian Acres and flea market trips
No early morning stirring as she prepares for dialysis
No more dust piles left swept neatly in the hall
No more hugs from the one who reassured me despite it all
Were losing only the physical evidence of this home
But losing her and it so closely reaffirms that she really is gone…

Queen Poetess B Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved.