By Christy Bailes
My walls have seen forty years,
with each layer more concealed
than the last, and I wash, scrubbing
nicotine-stained body, so full of memory
that I measure time by yellow, once white smoke,
swirling elegantly about the room, looking
visually pleasing until I smell burnt tar.
I scrub harder, saturating the rag that
turns my hand yellow. And I realize the
taste of poison never dies, but passes from
mouth to body, only to grow faint, as I see
my life in yellow, stained in just as many
layers as the walls I now cover up with paint.
Nothing escapes the brush rolling over every
socket, every door hinge, everything that still
keeps age and secrets from the past fog of
those living within the walls, those I feel
with each stroke of trying to forget.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student