We never sat in the sitting room.
Darkened floors covered in tattered hooked rugs,
Starch still clinging to the gauze curtains
Long ago soot covered, still hanging
On past pride.
The boxer’s hand would scoot
The True Detective magazines
Aside. Trashy stuff.
I would peek at the pointy breast heroine in distress,
I could imagine and draw
Her in vivid detail making
A story of my own.
I would sit on a stool near the hearth,
A daydreamer
Lulled by ticking clock and half burnt coal.
The boxer would wipe the tobacco drool.
The aunt would squeeze a nickel
Conditional
On good behavior.
The aging aunt would
Smooth her apron and nod
Away in her daydreams, not bejeweled
By the sudden wealth of nickels.
The rhythm of the sitting room
Promises denied
In McCall’s
And True Detective
Spilled around their feet
Piling up their hopes
In teetering stacks
Where no one sits
And no one stays.