There is a floor in a house with a spot in the corner.
There is a story about the spot that no one is willing to share.
There is a loneliness in the house that manifests in the spot.
There is a story about the loneliness that no one is willing to tell.
There is a tree outside a window that casts a shadow on the spot.
There is a story about the tree that no one is able to translate from its original tongue.
There is furniture in the attic that may or may not be stained as the spot is stained.
There is a story of the stains that no one is willing to affirm.
Every building is a metaphor, of course it is;
the floors, the basement, the furniture, of course they are;
the stains on the floors, the whispering creak of the settling joists,
the tight fits of seams loosening with age; of course they are.
Every house isn’t just home but also prison and memory sink,
gallows, refrigerator gallery, slaughterhouse and hideaway,
of course it is, of course;
but it also is a place
where people live. Where people
want to live or at least have to
stay while they get past the metaphor
into simply getting by.
There is a story about how someone does such a thing.