A Tiny White Stucco House
/To venture inside
————
Loneliness and grief pursued him,
Not unlike his needing a shave,
when he turned up
in Fresno, California, in 1947.
To live in a tiny stucco house
in a sad neighborhood
in a lethargic town
where many peers had settled.
His house was on a street
without sidewalks, street-lights,
curbs or gutters,
and had only a dirt driveway
to where he had planted two trees
an apricot and plum
behind the garage
where he parked his ‘98 Skylark.
A short hedge encircled
the house and fenced yard,
a double-gate opened in
to dormant bermuda grass.
Largely seen as an enigma
to his neighbors,
who rarely saw him
outside with a broom, or
at the mailbox, or in his yard.
He didn’t subscribe
to the daily newspaper
or come outside to collect it.
At night, the only light
was a buttery glow
from a kitchen window
with the blinds pulled down.
To venture inside
this man’s home
one would find it
sparsely appointed
with used and broken furniture.
One bedroom completely empty
And the hollow core-door locked
For whatever reason.
There were the objects
that he used every day
a chipped plate, a kettle,
a cup with no handle,
a silver-plated spoon
from the Hotel Fresno.
The only decoration
was a framed photograph
of an uncle in a red fez
on the living room partition
above an unused couch.
A perpetual calendar
hung on the kitchen wall.
He suffered
his memories alone,
and for that reason
He rarely ventured beyond
the confines of his home
or even his yard,
from guilt he felt
for being alive.
He grieved
for the slaughter
of the innocents,
having nearly escaped
when others did not.
Agonized with the disease
of false-guilt,
he deprived himself
of human relationships,
ingredients essential
for one man’s happiness;
a wife and family.
And that left him morose
with a sullen expression,
As his eyes sunk deeper,
further back into his head.
He had witnessed the violence,
tormented by what he saw,
he often dreamt
of the events relived
sitting by himself,
waiting to die.
By Stephen Barile
From: United States