Suburban dream

An empty room, but for the furnishings, appliances. It’s deathly quiet. You must be at work. The table is glass and recently lustered. The window sill loping in circle, a tomato and onion grazing in shade—

Out the window, a swimming hole, aqua shiver, the drain imperceptible in the deep end—

The breeze husks aboriginal fields. Shadows leap in, leap out. There is an opening to the edge of my view—the laundry. An artificial grass carpet, corners wilted, upturned. The washer and dryer—two ivory cubes of ice. A basket of sweatsocks, boxer shorts—two rustic shirts I asked not to be washed—

The door is thick protecting a vault. I hit tennis balls off it, stain and smother its beige coat. Open the door and the garage, with its cobwebs and 40 degree chill—its heaps of sunken basketballs, wooden tennis rackets, once carted off to camp—

An old chest with golden latches, a variety of drawers. Misplaced in time, in the pageantry of children and sleepover parties—by a water heater under a naked bulb with its swaying string—in the hallow darkness where no kids roam alone—

I lived there you know, and opened all the drawers—

Looking for my heart, finding clothes.

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