In My House
The weather is not good in my house tonight.
A tone of loathing lives in the light bulb,
And when I lay makes my hair a spider on the carpet.
The room that someone else designed
Has become of tomb of what the ideal “us”
Would be if we weren’t us. So lay
Like you sleep and hope I don’t speak.
The light that loathes falls on our dresser,
Drawer handles have eyes that watch
The speakers with suspicion.
I know there is much work to be done,