Empty House

The house is
Wood floor palms holding up
A criss-cross apple sauce girl
Wishing whapple sauce.

Loud silence echoes empty backdrop,

And then I’m back on a
Half-inflated Ramen noodle pasta bed,
Bruised fruit with the legendary python
Wrapping coiled closeness around my leg,
Sniffing out copper penny nectar.

It isn’t a hunt

If he never leaves the mattress.

I leave for work

While he’s folding up.
I come home,
Still folding.
I wash myself,
And I can see
He’s pulling himself tighter
Through a clouded shower curtain.

I’m sitting in his corner now,

Pulling myself in as a locking lump,
Seeing a shadow mirror type of me
Shake, rattle, and roll,
But there’s no voice
To be coughed up
Because my lips are buried
Somewhere with the rest of my neck
Under slime scales.

He shed so much skin,

He didn’t have any left,
And he molded.

That’s it, isn’t it?

But there are snake droppings

Of crushed golden High Life cans
Getting silver under the sink,
And suddenly, snake skin does exist.

I’m still living with serpents.

Skeletons aren’t the only substance

To one anything.