Through the Back Door

To the friend I could have had:

At the front of the house you see a large picture window

Curtains pulled wide, not trying to hide

A house standing proud

Tall and blue

Like my dignity.

But that’s not where I sit.

Around back

Behind the bushes obscuring the other door

And the door obscuring the other life

Occurring

Two flights up and worlds away.

I look out from the small window nestled between

Walls covered in peeling paint and floors covered in onion peels.

Something thick and sticky clinging to my bare toes

The juice that spilled yesterday, perhaps

Or the viscous shame of too-loud row

That neighbors must pretend not too hear.

In the sink

The dishes are starting to grow

A white little crust that smells faintly of

Cottage cheese and neglect.

And if I’m not careful that bottled up feeling in me

Will explode

Right out there, onto the kitchen floor

Joining that bleeding puddle of spilled spaghetti sauce

And you and I?

Forgive me if I don’t want you privy

To the mess that is my life.