Paper Plates

I think we all were eager to leave
that soft blue house with its wind chimes swinging,
the oil-stained driveway,
the sugar tips that wept
pink every year as hummingbirds and ants played in their sweet petals.
When we left, I said goodbye
to the gentle blooming bush that stroked
my window every night.

In the backyard there were bluebonnets and mushrooms and a flat stone path leading
up to wide French doors that watched the dining room
like gaping eyes, watching

all of my worst memories,
long repressed,
rotting in the back of my mind like the putrid dishes we all ignored.


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