The House with the Yellow-Door

A poem I meant to write when I was three.

 

Walking along the side of a drive

Ev’ry road but your road

with the hair shining in my face like

stained pane winduhs that cast out

into the pews like        angry voices

I shuffle I shake I breathe in I moan

Is that what our house was?

You, Yellow-Door, paint chip heaven

I sat in your front yard and ate the grass

            The blades biting my legs

Watching the shades shut from outside

So alone

            shivering in the dew

Until I was rushed outta there

            onto clean cleaner pavement

lacking a quintessential agreement

between the beast and the strange beauty.

I wish we grew together

            Gnawing on hinges.

Cracked pillars fallen clingin’ to the others

tall with worry like a mother with a child

wrapped around her waist.

                                    What strange haven

this is to call home and rest across the porch

staring down you, Yellow-Door.

            Keep me out of touch again

            I want the grass stains to fade.