footsteps patter on the linoleum,
echoes which are quite loathsome
to mothers.
the light flickers yellow,
a house sculpted by Donatello
that lacks the warmth of his work.
chimney smoke in a plume,
by the washroom door sits the broom
with no one to sweep.
the street reflects a reclusive sky,
washed away by the outcry
of growing up.
maple wood creaks with pressure,
an aimless pleasure
to reflect on a bench.
a kitchen cabinet creaks,
heard, for no one speaks
by the curtained window.
frogs croak by moonlight,
in a pool earned by birthright
with no successors.
a pair of tense shoulders,
eyes with colors like boulders
that hold back tears.
resolve that gradually crumbles,
through the door a woman stumbles
into the last room.
weeping that yields rivers,
the bedframe quivers
and supports her.