section eight

the cracked door,
where a fist, or boot may
have struck it,
the steps, broken, a dark
hole in the concrete
where it sags. a paper cup
full of cigarette butts
on the ledge.
the jammed lock with half
a key. the unchained dog
scratching at the door.
the pots and pans
on the stove, each stuck
with food
from some morning or
night, cooked then
left to stand.
the debris of paper,
unopened bills,
boxes. the smell of sinks
overflowing, something
wet and slippery
on the matted rug,
once red, now a faded
pinkish color. coral
under a green sea.
everything is sticky.
the heavy curtains keep
the light out,
the darkness in.
and on the wall a plaque
reads home sweet home.
blessed be this house
we dwell in.