Inhumed
He’s been home alone all night,
petting the faithful dog resting on his callow lap.
Every morning his mom is up and gone
before he has the chance to say ‘good morning’,
returning too late to say ‘good night’.
He weaves through the narrow space
between the coherent clutter in every room.
Layers of books, clothes, antique décor,
and objects never touched.
The fish tank rots in the corner
along with plentiful arrays of festering plants.
With a grimace, it pains him terribly
just to try and remember the color of the floor.
The little white dog follows him to the kitchen,
hopping over brimful bags of groceries
left out from weeks ago.
Fat black flies buzz over overflowing dirty dishes
covering every inch of countertop.
Raspy barks of shabby dogs call from the kennels
stacked against the far wall, behind the unkempt dining table.
The boy holds his breath to the sour smell of secretion
as he clears a way to the microwave.
He grabs a rancid plate from the sink
to heat a pizza pop, hoping it hasn’t spoiled.
Later in his bed, he hears the front door banging.
Whimpering, the small dog nuzzles the boy;
He holds the blankets open for it to crawl inside.
An angry shout silences the cacophony of animals,
shopping bags rustle with each footstep,
followed by a thud as they are added to the collection.
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The Ways in Which We Walk the Earth
PoetryPoetry to nourish the soul and mind, for better or worse.
