glancing at the house
once holding me close,
keeping me sick
with wino bourbon blight.
--
my friends are gathering
in the cross corner lot
for remembrances of broken glass,
ghosts at play with new keds shoes.
--
i'm always almost with them,
dragging a bit behind
carrying shattered consciences
of errant kites fallen into power lines.
--
this gorgeous patch of suburbia
in its formative years
fills the caverns of my memories
with rosebuds and plum trees.
--
safe for a time
from our little house of horrors
where mom always said,
"don't play happy in the house."
--
or maybe she simply set the stage
for me to draw my own conclusions
of our depressive misdemeanors
with a fierce beauty all their own.
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