Subterfuge
By Meg Tuite
Posted on
When your own space rejects you
the walls creep in when you least expect it.
The clock sneers
And holds her breath like one of those bitch-ass girls
from school who scorn you.
The kaleidoscope of abandoned shirts, socks, pants,
empty cans, books and DVD’s
that frame you
all of sudden look impeccably dressed beneath all the dustballs
and whisper, as though you hadn’t cleaned some cat vomit
off of them a day or two ago.
You attempt to take possession
of the room
After all, you own all this damn crap
that now berates you …
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