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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1730771-Returning-To-My-Former-Haunts
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Family · #1730771
Boy living away from home discovers his "Mom" in his kitchen.
RETURNING TO MY FORMER HAUNTS


Nursing a cup of morning coffee
Laced with Black Sambucca
It rests on my eagle-foot bathtub
Beside my shaving cup and brush
         I got Cagney staring back at me          
         From my cracked bathroom mirror
A cigarette burning brown
On the porcelain corner
I’ve got a mouthful of stale old secrets
And rooms to rent down the hall

The shades are drawn and the TV’s on
Broken promises pace in the dark
I’m keeping warm with
A bottle of Revolution and resistance…
Women are the snipers of the heart

Time alone here is a bitter pill
The lesbian schoolteacher served mutton stew
She left a copy of the New Testament
On my toilet seat a while ago
Said she had some
Ash Wednesday wine and ladyfingers
Dipped in Spanish espresso
I cut open a dozen cold tablets
Separated the red from the white
And went to bed with Bella Donna
As Hoagy Carmichael spilled from the radio

Television shadows
Flickered against the stained drawn blinds
I was sleeping in my gypsy boots
Wearing tequila like perfume
I crawl between the shards of broken bottles
I could’ve made a nickel but 
I like the sound of breaking glass

So I bought a round of drinks for the ghost of Bukowski
While two ballsy chicks licked their swizzle sticks
I slipped out to grab a bite
They wore a cracked old leather look
Like a World War bomber jacket
Abrasions adorned their faded faces
With crass cruelty

Now there’s a ghostly shadow by my stove and 
There's a lasagna in the oven   
I heard the seductive pour of wine and wondered
Who’s in the kitchen beside
The mice and roaches?

There’s a buttery taste of oil
That rolled across my lips like a kiss
I let the red onion’s footsteps
Walk around my lonely tongue
The taste roamed the darkness of my throat and
Put a noose around my appetite

I saw her black lace stockings
Hung like a weeping willow over the chair
Her singing in the kitchen
Drove the vermin from the walls
Her wooden spoon was dancing with
The spaghetti and the steam
The table was set for two this time
And I welcomed this favorite dream

A single rose in a mason jar
Blessed the dinner plates
It may have been the cheese or
It may have been the fruits
The sliced pies and pastries - or bread crumbs on the seats
But I put on a clean T-shirt
Cause my mother was in the house
And the cigarettes and beer cans
Were kicked under the couch

And the linoleum looked much brighter
The sink sparkled with its white hard gleam
There were breadsticks and butter olives on the side...
A crucifix above the stove
And rosary beads by the knives

She looked at me like she was never gone
And I knew it was all a dream
But I decided I could have dinner now
I didn’t care what it would really mean
For the currency of her affection
Filled the room with her recipes
Her fist measured out the flour
Her fingers took a pinch of salt
Her eyes still saw me
Like no one else saw me
And her beauty never betrayed her smile
As the lights in the kitchen dimmed and faded
I thought I caught a whiff of her oregano
On my hands and in my hair



Words by John Apice
C-Copyright-Registered House of Apice Poetry
February 15th 2002/ May 30th 2002
For Mom


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