A puddle of water pools in the hallway.
The bathroom smells of rusty water.
Linoleum tiles peel away from the subfloor,
and cigarette smoke lingers in the light
of the one bulb that hasn’t burned out yet.
There is a film on my skin
that can’t be washed away.
Dead bugs with crunchy legs
lie upside down.
Blue and white boxes overflow
with a blur of items.
My bare feet feel cold
on the concrete floor.
The back door is open,
and the backyard is a jungle
of green and banana trees.
The wind brings in the scent
of wet grass
and pond water covered with algae.
I’m surrounded by clothes
I’ve never seen worn,
hanging high on poles
secured to the ceiling
with thick white wire.
Why couldn’t anyone cut them
to look tidy?
The wood of the laundry chute,
so thin, but slick
and just sticky enough
to climb with no socks.
Birds chirping.
I can hear them.
Upstairs,
the couch is occupied
by piles of last week’s laundry.
A piece of leftover food
sits at the bottom of the cup
I just pulled from the cabinet.
Dishwashers look way different
without a panel covering
the electrical components.
Yarn tangled in my mom’s bed
that will get shoved on the floor
when the sun goes down.
The drywall is cracked,
and dust litters the floor.
Rolling thunder shakes my bones.
Wind sings a familiar lullaby.
A puddle of water pools in the hallway.