A Perfect Home

it was the perfect home:

the kitchen was small —
room for only one cook —
but the meals were the right size;

the table was built for two,
we could sit close enough
to touch while we planned
our lives adventures.

routine claimed the hours
of our life:

meals followed the path of repetition —
Monday, meatloaf, Tuesday, chicken … —
each one tasting of the last;

distractions ruled the time
at the table, daily inanities
killing grand plans;

we still sat close enough to touch,
but rarely did skin meet skin.

it was the perfect home,
until time peeled paint,
we became one with the seat cushions,
and adventure was a false memory
of things never done.

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18 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

18 responses to “A Perfect Home

  1. Oh, no. What started so happily finished on a downer. Don’t let it be like that!

  2. othermary

    This is my favorite so far. You’ve nailed it.

  3. “False memory of things never done” excellent reminder of how NOT to live.

  4. Widow Beach

    Great poem, poignant.

  5. Those distractions always challenge us ~ resonate…

  6. Well done …thanks for sharing

  7. Why is it that all good things in life have to come to an end?

    the kitchen was small –
    room for only one cook –
    but the meals were the right size;

    The above lines are so touching. It shows the contentment of the members.

  8. Both mournful and wistful; well done.

  9. This made me cry. Beautiful.

  10. A beautiful write … sad ending and all.

  11. Rueful rendition this one!! very well written πŸ™‚

  12. I like this, it is touching, thank you.

  13. Tess Kincaid

    I especially like “we became one with the seat cushions”…lovely write…

  14. wonderful poem, Mark. I like the descent.

  15. A wonderful write. My kitchen’s big but still only room for one cook – him!!

  16. time pealed paint… I like that

  17. ~T~

    Oh, dear! A vivid reminder to get out of the house sometimes–together!

  18. Oh how tragic. It begins with hope and then what happens? Where does the hope go?

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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