Your home
Is a furnished mausoleum.
You have
Painstakingly
Made it
Immaculate.
You’ve worked tirelessly,
Folding dreams into severe, white stacks,
Like coroner’s smocks,
Storing them in clinical hall closets for future reference.
Your passion has been carefully
Swept away.
A nasty thing, passion; constantly bleeding color onto
Tightly-wound, grey berber,
Leaving puddles on glassy maple floors.
I suspect you keep your love tucked away in a cupboard,
Next to a bottle of affection, and a box of tenderness,
Where it ferments
On smooth shelf-liner.
I tip-toe through your home,
Taking great care not to leave evidence
Of my passing.
I walk past drawers
And these small tombs
Offer up the cold,
Morbid,
Scent of fear.
My head spins,
Stomach turns in small, frantic circles.
I mourn the death of everything that makes you human,
The pristine decay of your spirit.
I leave a spray of condolences on your doormat
with a card that says,
“Deepest Sympathy.”


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Copyright ©1999 by Brian Tacang. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic – First Journey (Sept. 2000)
First Place, Webstatic Poetry Contest, Second Half 1999
Brian’s biography page