A Poem by M. Lapin
In my mother;s house, a wheelchair leans against the ancient television set in the space between a century old piano and a large artifical plant.
In my mother’s house, the artifact of living rooms is white on white on white clean.
In my mother’s house, the kitchen holds glasses for drinking water, plates hidden away in inaccessible corners, and three spoons and one fork, (There is no knife.)
In my mother’s house, the only working TV sits on the edge of a long dresser at the end of a king sized bed made for three where she alone rests during the day and sleeps during the night.
In my mother’s house love is a broken door and passion slips away through closed awnings.