He drowns his plants
when he's bored,
but regrets it
when they die.
His house is like a
museum—
statues and sewn tapestries
all over. 
He imagines he's 
in the British countryside,
with his cottage of a house
and brick fireplace. 
He misses his past, 
when he would wear
bright yellow shorts
and buy candy
for 20 cents apiece. 
And so he plants daisies 
underneath all his windows,
he borrows copies of old books
that he’ll never return. 
The lamp shades in his house
look like stained glass. 
His dreams haunt him
and he can’t find it in him
to open his boxes 
filled with dust bunnies. 
He’s afraid they’ll all hop away. 
He shoves empty photo albums
underneath his bed
because he wants to see 
all the memories
in his sleep. 
The carpets in his house
climb up the walls,
hidden behind furniture. 
The bare swing outside,
surrounded by flowers,
rocks in the wind
and so he sometimes 
goes outside
to stop it. 
He doesn’t like the sound of rocking swings.