Dust in the mansion

While the nest was on the border of the village.
I flew towards the city with empty-handed.
A bungalow nothing see inside, like a bunker.
Not the front door, but the back door was opened.
A big lady gave me a cookery lecture.
No wood stoves, but microwave ovens were here.
Scared to touch, if it explode like nuclear bombs.
Babies went school with big books like the Bible.
They barely looked at me with their one eye.
How to set my dirty foots on coloured carpets.
But I vacuumed it until dwindled my feet.
Babies’ dad was always with a pipe of tobacco.
Big lady’s gown was too heavy to carry.
Photos of old generation look like ghosts on the wall.
The antique furniture was like brown chocolate.
There were more closed rooms than open ones.
I slept on the kitchen but an Alsatian was on the sofa.
At night, everyone sat around a picture box called TV.
How to watch it, but only stars beyond the window.
No village cocks here, so I woke up to the alarm.
No ending to night parties, when their relatives came.
Smell of roasted chicken made me salivate.
How to my enzymes digest hamburgers, so I ate bread.
Served until babies grew up, later to babies of babies.
Until death appears my dissolved life will remain here.
My ghost too will serve as a dust trampled by them.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem