If These Walls Could Talk
Our house could tell a person many things
about us, a story in still-life, in fair Indiana
where we lay our scene, A Tale of Two
English teachers, both alike in dignity say
the shelves of Shakespeare and poetry.
Busy people, always on the run say the
unmade bed and dishes in the sink. While
the cracked kitchen door frame, the leak
in the bedroom ceiling, the missing window
pane and the broken attic stairs are a Greek
chorus, wailing as one, These people were
never very handy. Never, never haaaaandy!
But the garden would tell people you love
the sunlight, you love to be outside, and
the games we have piled in the basement
would announce that we enjoy our time
together, and all the Disneyana- the ears,
the pins, the posters- would paint a clear
picture as to where we spend our vacation
time and how we spend our pay checks.
And so much, so much would confess
our ADD, our distractibility, our unfinished
and rarely resolved
The kitchen shelves, the cabinets and
refrigerator- so fully-stocked and rich with
options tell their damnable lies about
the healthy and complex meals we cook
with committed regularity (but the recycle
bin stuffed with pizza boxes tells the truth).
And the Amazon Echo (our dear Alexa),
she who stands her nightly vigil on the
nightstand by the bed, oh the stories she
could tell of our allergies and the symphonies
they inspire our nasal passages to make.
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