“Come live with us”, Mother suggests
in her there’s-nothing-we-can’t-handle
tone of voice. Father lowers paper,
raises eyebrows, stern blue eyes
flashing over spectacle rims, says
nothing. Am I supposed to interpret
concordance or contradiction?
“But you live in a box! Where would
I sleep?” “More of a rectangle.”
I contemplate room dividers, imagine
claiming a corner of the room.
Or I can move in with the man-child,
learn to tolerate delusions, listen
to incessant rants of how he’s been
wronged, content myself with
picking up after endless trails of
discards – same four-walled
containment, different cohabitant.
But wait! “Where’s the plumbing?”
How does one discreetly manage
personal excrement in a one-roomed
existence? I startle; awaken.
No plumbing needed here;
I’ve received an invitation
from the grave!
Sometimes life gives us choices;
no guarantee either will be palatable.