He climbed the narrow stairs,
Forced the swollen door,
And tossed aside his keys;
Sluggishly kicked his shoes, one by one,
Onto the wearied wooden floor boards;
And took three slow steps into the kitchen.
Empty.
He closed his eyes
And drew one strenuous breath.
His sigh ruffled the calm of the cool, drafty air.
Blind fingertips skimmed a dusty countertop,
One hand reaching out as two feet stayed planted
In darned socks, once healed by mother’s hands.
He pushed his toes, hard and slow, into that roughhewn floor,
Lifting tweed heals, millimeter by millimeter.
As his head crept toward the tired, cock-eyed fan blades,
His hair began to ruffle in the calm of stale, artificial breeze.
Higher, Higher.
Follicles drawn upward as if by static, helpless in midair,
Palm pressing hard an already battered counter space.
Lungs laboring to sustain some life.
Melancholy is a lifeboat,
A deserted bus stop between Happiness and Despair.
But Melancholy is no place to live.
It’s merely a rented room, with an empty kitchen.
He breathed in (the pain! – crisp and worn)
And it meant he was still breathing,
Strung up by poignancy,
Suspended by feeling,
In that damned unfeeling kitchen.
He just hung there. And hoped.
