3809. JUMBLE

JUMBLE

I suppose you came home for supper,

like I suppose you ever cared - the soup was

pea green and the coffee brown like mud. All

things made me so unhappy. Underneath the 
carpet, the runs of cracked wood were all

well-covered. I hid in the closet until you left.

-

Just as I never met my father, I'd never before

met my mother  -  both were strangers to me.

Used to being alone, disowned, I took no

bad feelings of whatever I was (not) given.

My life was a blunder, a slum. I really

should have died at seven.

-

Alas, I lingered  -  I grew too old, too soon;

I stayed at this fair until the tents and

carnival acts were all gone. The bare

ground, looking abandoned and worn,

was all I ever saw. My mind, too, was

but a sepia photo on a chipped and

barren mantle I seldom ever looked at.

Enough. I'm so tired, just let me go.