The half-eaten crumpled bag
of potato chips
lays on the kitchen counter.
Friendly families of take-out containers convene in pockets
scattered on the table and floor, some making it home to the garbage can.
A soft, yellow-colored lamp illuminates the brown
wooden desk in the living room where a school book bag
has set up shop.
Piles of books and papers
circle the desk in almost concentric circles worshiping silently the lone figure
studying deep into the night.
The living room drapes usually neat, stiff and formal
are askew- shoved into the corner
all on one side.
Through the now naked French doors, stars pierce the dark sky
like pimples on a pubescent boy’s face in the midst of a testosterone surge.
An unlit Christmas tree – plastic and still in sections- lies forlornly
in the corner
hidden behind boxes of ornaments haphazardly stacked on top of each other.
The task at hand goes undone.
Mud splashed sneakers lay happily splayed on the floor, adding personality
to Mom’s fancy cream wool carpet.
Once freshly pressed church clothes blanket the floor like the thick
sludge in a Louisiana marsh.
A tie borrowed from Dad hangs from a staircase.
With socks as it’s neighbors,
they decorate the rails like Christmas ornaments.
When the parents are away.