Shotgun Homes

I now envy those ugly bourgeois vomit curtains.

So flaccid and opaque, not forced

To be a witness.

My bladder woke me up. I had to leap over the front of my bed,

like every day to not wake up the golden child.

But the prodigal son was not in bed,

his Dell Inspiron was closed for once.

I take the usually 4 steps to the left,

But the light in the bathroom was already on.

The sink was running.

I knew Kyle was there I could hear his tell-tale mouth breathing.

The water was still running.

Kyle always hit me in the back if  the sink was on for too long in my presence.

The back door slams, I nearly match its volume from shock.

It must have been 5 am, my half deaf father was making his

Way to work, he can’t  hear the difference between the Pomp and Circumstance

Of quick-apathy shut doors, and a surreptitious exit.

I wade through the tepid air of that terrible hallway.

The knob turned without arguing.

The sink was not overfilled with water, I expected too many clichés

In my formative years.

But my brother was covered with brother.

His glasses only half on his bloodless face.

He could have been sleeping, if linoleum wasn't his bed.

Kyle was still wearing shoes, his clothes were the same shade of ugly from the day before.

I yelled at him.

I called him metal mouth, cello sissy, and whatever he used to insult me.

He didn't falter,

 I dared not touch him,

for fear he would reveal his bluff and retaliate.

I reverted back to infancy, and repeated my first word.

I kept saying it over and over, I crescendoed as I slapped

My mother’s door.                  

I was relieved to see another human.

Logan what could it be? Say!?

I reached up to her hand to guide her,

But she retracts and moves to the bathroom, reacting to the same faucet noise.

She complemented her god.