the house down the road

the décor, to put it mildly
is glum, not unlike the tenants,

the chairs trying hard to be more
than what they are,

as we do
on occasion, in our happy
dress,

our heels, our scarves.
the world is full of drapes hung
dark
to hide
the light. what light arrives
from
a canopy of trees.

the chandelier an ancient
relic
from
grandma's
dining room, death allowing her
hand
to lose grip, at last,
on it's crystal pendants.

how it flickers with frayed
wires on my former blanche dubois.

her blonde hair, thick and brittle
as her fingers
twist and twist and twist.

the pain of light revealing her
deepening age.

it's nowhere, this place, this
furniture, bought
with money
stolen. it's a style stuck
somewhere between Iraq and a lay-z-boy
clearance.

there is no art upon the walls,
just what one might imagine art to be.

neither new or old is the table,
those hard backed chairs,

the piano, lacquered black
and out of tune emits nothing
but show tunes,
themes of movies,
gloom gloom gloom.

this tomb.