Of what was left behind, last Tuesday,
After the eviction of half-baked Linda and
Her Persian cat named Eros
The front bushes are yellow. The cement walkway
Is gray, and the car bending
The corner is, also, gray;
But for now Linda’s house, looks very much like
She and her cat are still inside, cuddled
On the couch. The ceiling is covered
With gorilla-glued-on starfish that create
An unrecognizable constellation.
There is a fish tank by the door,
The size of a fridge put on its side,
Filled with water and vegetation,
But no fish. Instead of wallpaper or pictures,
She covers the wall with sheets that were
Scrunched and dyed, now held up
By thumbtacks. A few tacks are scattered
Under the couch next to a hidden mood ring
That glows a cool-blue. The golden fur balls
Scattered about, that cling
To every corner
Represent the reluctance,
Of leaving something loved, that Linda
And her cat tried to fight last Tuesday.
In the back yard, there is
A fifteen year old collection of broken ceramic,
Small blocks of wood, and bamboo rods,
Collected for a magnum opus, that was never started,
While a stork-shaped mailbox
Peers its hand-painted eyes over
The fence, stretching his slender wooden legs,
To try to estimate the value of the vault
He guards; all of us hold on, to giant hollowed fish-tanks,
Surroundings that we veneer, feelings that we try to hide,
And a fear to approach dreams
That we have prepared for, yet never peruse.
Something is watching.
On tall stork-stilts it can see how well we manage
To paste things up in the sky and bind ourselves
Down with essential nothings. As the gray car makes its final turn,
The stork counts the
Golden balls of fur that we rolled most tightly.
If you stare at the star-fish-constellations long enough
You will find, that the stars,
Are only stars.