The next poem I write will have the
L-shaped faded lime colored couch
hugging living room wall. The coffee table with
the ashtray filled with small shriveled
up cigarette buds. Cans of empty Coke
scatter the premise like loose change.
The next poem I write will be about the faded
white lines on the navy blue ping pong table
In the basement. The rusty hinges moan and
creak, lusting for the slightest drop of oil it
hasn't had in years.
The next poem will have a bedroom with
Hot Wheel toy cars. The cars unopened
in their
clear plastic boxes smothering the wall. The
red race car bed that hasn't been used
in years,
piled high with a mountain
of pillows and stuffed animals