The lives of 83 Robinson St
The floorboards have something to say;
they moan and carry on while she tries
to work. That tune she hums quiets their
cries. Flour. Water. Mix. Feeling risky,
she takes two grains of salt. Mix again.
They taste like tears. Like suffering, like
crying, like floorboards creaking. Asking
for a break. Her cotton, her white purity
strangles her favourite pastime: gazing
up at the cracks in the ceiling. Murmurs
make way, and muted mumblings of
histories, painting stories on walls, light
through stained glass windows tall
enough to taunt her dampened dreams.
Leaving a kidnapped life. Her hopes
linger with a lakeview on top of a turret.
The milk comes when the bell rings.
Open the grate at the top of the door
for a peak at the man, who breathes
fresh air. Watch him leave, to live.
No thought for her time stuck between
bricks. Poke holes, seep through
the present and into the future. Eyes
widen through the grate, help, a lie
to God that this house is a home, that life
could mean more than a wafer thin excuse
for a waxed and sealed invitation. She’ll wait
for her free pass. Her chance at heaven.
