Squatters

...the past gets dragged along...

Strangers have squatted
in my house.
A rag-tag bunch,
They’ve definitely over-stayed
their welcome
if ever there was one.
Chinese soldiers have taken
the place of my lamps.
They stand erect
on their platforms,
faces shaded from any questions
that might be lobbed their way.
They don’t complain
or ask questions;
they follow the orders
as days turn to nights
turn to days and dark again.
Chairs slouch
like lazy lout teenagers
in front of the TV.
Sit on them or not,
they couldn’t care less.
I mean, like, whatever…
Look lady,
I didn’t ask to be
brought into this world
so what’s it to me?
Bric-a-brac doing its
best imitation
of precious memories;
there’s dad in a wheat field
and Willy in his kayak,
and mom in earlier days,
back when she
tried to understand
my wandering ways.
I ought to kick them out,
these foreign nationals
these loafing remnants,
these relics of the past.
And I mean to, really,
but then the stones
on the shelf
begin to hum,
poetry winds its way
down the curving chair legs
and the sound of
mariachi
seeps from the
dented coffee table.
Family ties bind
the knickknacks to
the dusty ledge
and my history hangs
from the same hooks
as those African shakers
and fossilized bones
on display.

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