Your mother cares about me, so put your drinks down…the sink

I think that I am like your mother’s coffee table.

Its seems that no matter how long I am here

You still seem to trip over my existence.

And everytime you set something of yours down

Upon me, the wise faces cringe

Because we all know that I shall be left

With another water ring.


All of your friends crawled underneath

To write their names where they couldn’t be seen

But your mother won’t ever get to see

So she can scrub it all away

As you retreat to the wide hallway

Your house has always disturbed you

Because of its wide hallways?

Where there were not enough side shadows.


Counting the stars really isn’t so romantic

Paper cups and wine really isn’t so special

But it has got to be better than  city window constellations

Their lethargic lights that just won’t die

And pouring for ambiguous men whom

Laugh at things that were never meant to be happy


When they sit you down to “talk”

The living room will be too clear

And I will finally not be there waiting

In between you and your philosophies


Dad will have to lay the facts on the floor

Because you broke that coffee table

Mom will have to start to cry

For she taught then asked you to care

But you ran too fast to miss the table


How empty is the room now

Nowhere to set your elbows

No place to tap your fingers

Nothing to hide behind

The marks still left in the carpet


We wish you the best





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Filed under -Letters to Louise-, Art, Poetry...

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