It is seven, and the day is unclear whether nighttime curtains us
or rather, morning has crept upon the fissured lot of where we reside
Blue hour stains the skies, blood amongst cirrostratus clouds –
watercolor across thin edges
I wrap the entrails of my thoughts like knots from a 12-year-old and attempt to understand the meaning inside the tangled seams of where home went. Within the remnants of my footsteps, a concrete structure remains erect: two-stories, spacious gaps between tannish doors, and I strode away from the first floor, far left
the smoker’s section a claustrophobic sanctum.
INTERIOR VIEW: From the entryway, upon sapphire carpet tainted with umber directs a narrow passage between a queen-sized bed and a six-drawer dresser | chafed Beside the dresser’s end, two mirrors, one an inch before the other, sliding doors, and inside the belly of the closest are a lonesome pillow and throw- blanket | my sleeping quarters.
Toward the “kitchen” nook, a microwave the fridge’s crown, is the location of aunt’s makeshift cot, littered fragments of where I broke her picture frame like Mother would break Father | this is how I learn.
Stillness smothers warmth upon the surrounding cement jungle a parking garage is to my right, a dead street beneath a bustling overpass to my left. Hollers ricochet from the rectangular pillars: from the center of the motel’s lot, I witness a man’s interpretative dance called a tweaker in need of a fix.
Crosswise the lot, over the crumbling street, are buildings with plywood windows painted with hate speech and names, and I ponder longer on them than the rest, imagining if I could resurrect home within one-