Old Wallpaper

I slipped in the oil and on the loose gravel
running down the road's shoulder
just to climb the wooden steps, creaking under foot
hearing
then jumping onto the front porch's swayed back
swinging open the screen door,
the one with little wooden pillars lining its face.
its frailty evident, slamming shut behind me
I was always running in and out, with a child’s vigor
not meaning to piss grandpa off as the door banged against the jam,
but to enjoy the arrival then the escape to the world outside.
Away from the spit baths, the unmoving, humid air
encased behind peeling wallpaper, and musty Midwestern walls.
No toilet, no sink, no air conditioner,
just one GE fan in grandpa’s room
one that you could hear, but not feel any flowing air.
So many “no’s” for such a little mind
that only became cognizant in an older state

Always just running to get outside, to get away,
once the thunder storm had passed.
To squat down, mystified by the patterns,
found in long blades of grass doted with flower petals
and clumps of clay, flattened down and mottled
under the water rushing past from the gutter above
flowing towards the wooden steps leading to the road.
Where it went from there, I still do not know.
it was going towards somewhere and
away from me all in the same moment.
A moment to be watched, almost captured
imprinted so as to be learned, and mostly understood.


Paris R. Masek II
March, 2009