A Poem About Our Past Inside Ourselves
My partitioned selves drift in the rooms of Apt. 218.
I rewind a mixtape in my current room,
While down the hall, my childhood souls
Peek out occasionally to wave hello,
And up the hall are darkened bulbs and fear.
Sometimes I leave Apt. 218 to climb the musty stairs,
Then knock and enter Apt. 681 and tread down its halls.
An open doorway frames where the lemon-draped sunshine
Fills a glass of wilting plucked dandelions.
I sit down at her pale kiddie table
And ask about school and best friends;
I cut a pear for her while she sorts out her crayons:
“Jamison thought I took his banana, but he’s gross.”
I sketch a man bit by a dead bee
And pass it to her to color in.
“Enjoy being young. College stinks.”
Her 20-something soul leans coldly in the doorway;
The child looks up, then back to scribbling faster.
I beg pardon of my princess companion and leave.