shoes and boots stacked knee deep
in the corner behind the oil stove
mittens just might be found
on the kitchen counter- in July
voices got loud there and everyone
talked at once around the maple
table scarred and pocked with burn
marks a heap of dog-eared car trader
magazines and always, a chipped
crystal ashtray pushed against the wall
under the phone, it’s cord undulating
over a cluttered still life
noise rose to stain slats
of the wood ceiling while some fragrant
stew simmered and formed vapor
on old panes rattling in Yarmouth wind.
Now I have my own house. It’s lovely, really
in an ordered, pristine, perfect kind of way
it’s a place where floral patterned
seats of balloon backed chairs
coordinate with velvet stripes
on the serpentine settee, the shimmering
damask drapes, delicacy of Limoges
People usually call before visiting and
kids play in a “playroom” so the
“rest of the house” won’t be
disturbed.
Your new beau will never have to worry
about squashing the dead mackerel
that “Chico” sneaked onto the sofa
when nobody was looking
And, it’s a place
you won’t almost die laughing,
either.
Author Bio:
Virginia Boudreau lives in a seaside community on the south western tip of Nova Scotia. She works as an itinerant learning disabilities specialist for the local school board. As a member of two local writing groups she has the opportunity to indulge her passion for poetry on a regular basis.