Then and Now

The clock looks at me so hungry
face all empty and hollow
This house is big but it is empty
save for the shadows
and me.

I remember when we lived in a trailer
with copper wires and avocado green ceramic --
bathtub, toilet, sink
and tiny brown moving legs
and tiny brown watching eyes

Now the TV is almost as big as me
it covers a big green painting
impressionistic blurs
an anniversary present that costs far more
than my mother's diamond wedding ring.

When I was seven we ate
ramen noodles for dinner and
we drank water from the faucet
took drives while counting cows and picked
black-eyed susans from the side of the highway.

Daddy and I don't go out anymore
he sits in his recliner and I cook for him --
steak, filet mignon, medium rare.
He comes home from work so tired
but his pockets are deep and fat.

Every day he drives down the highway
but I won't touch the steering wheel
we didn't hang up one of those fake flower crosses
we don't need an acrylic memorial
to remember such things.

I thought I was miserable back then, hormones
rushing and bones aching, growing taller
but I was lucky then, living in a rent house
or a trailer or with my grandparents
but it was still all gonna be okay.

If only I'd known it then, so many people
always seem to say. But they don't know
it still, they still don't know it. A withered
waitress rests her hand on my father's back
but the only comfort she's providing
is for herself.