Soft peaches and roses cover the walls
Couches sit, warm brown, waiting content
Gentle heat fills these rooms like
A wash of petals, a scented candle
But this man is a thorn and a flame
He owns these walls; he does not belong
He waits for nothing, never sits
His room he has spray-painted
Angry smears, a world of gray
But no one enters the bedroom.
They look at the house of taupe
and pink. They say, “it is beautiful.”
He nods. He laughs. The sound is not
soft. The sound has no warmth.
“My wife liked pretty things,”
he says, and no one laughs.
There is no humor here