the family cat, Roosevelt

the orange shag rug,

scalloped with age and sun,

a path made

through the years,

of children

once small,

then grown.

up the stairs it goes

then into other rooms

like a coral reef or algae

in a dying sea.

it's the first thing you

notice when

you come through the door,

the first thing

that has to go, the jar lamps

next.

the hotel art with

big eyed dogs,

and landscapes of snow,

and water.

geese that never land.

a portrait that resembles

George Washington

hangs over the fireplace,

charred wood

resting upon the brick hearth.

in the corner

is a television, the rabbit ears

in place,

a horizontal button

ready to be turned.

beside the magazine

rack on the floor are

bookshelves with

encyclopedias,

road maps. a worn copy of

I'm Okay, You're Okay.

besides a family portrait,

and a picture on the shelf

of the family

cat. Roosevelt.