Hallowed bones cracked in the fireplace,
Predicting the sorrow of this hollow home.
The frayed ends of the ancient windchime,
With one bell still glistening on the rotted porch.
The kitchen smells of anger and clove oil;
The cast iron *** has boiled itself dry,
While the kettle screams on the stove.
Hands cracked and bruised,
Pulling back the tattered bed covers,
Dusting off yesterday's woes to make room for today.
Make snow angels out of the drywall from the ceiling.
Pipes rattle in the walls,
Announcing your midnight thirst.
Awake before dawn to get a bath first—
The only surety is the warmth of the water.
Dressed in the clothing of those much older,
Threadbare, feeling the cold before opening the door.
Worn boots crunching in the fresh snow;
Just a glance back,
Looking at home.