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by Ken Sanes

In the Martin house
there is one window
per bedroom,
and everyone
in the family
is dying, they are
mentally and physically
because of the lack
of windows.
On the first floor,
the mother drinks
and uses pills to sleep
while her husband
paces back and forth,
talking to himself
about accusations --
itís always something
about accusations.
Meanwhile, upstairs,
the adult daughter
is constantly
changing channels
with her remote
while her older brother
in the next room
is besieged by
anxiety attacks
over street noise
as well as noise
from the other rooms.
And itís like
a funeral in their
for the spirit
in this windowless house
of the mind
until one of them
in the middle of the night
and wakes up
all the others,
who begin pacing
back and forth,
hatching fantasies
of revenge.
Then they all cry out
at their windows
as their cries echo
through the waking nightmare
of our dreams.

Poems About Life: Homepage

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