ODE TO A RUG

Sixteen bloodstains,

one from each bar fight

that followed him back to our home.

A few burn marks and dried green paint.

I used to hide letters under its right corner.

He used to keep the good luck penny

given by his mother before her death

under the left one.

Mousey the cat would take to its center

tracing the sunlight there with a claw,

then get bored, go outside,

ask birds on the telephone wire for a cigarette.

A back burn from an overly excited lover

who sucked on the side of my neck

like it held a Big Lebowski sequel.

A collage made with pictures of my grandmother,

an Edie Brickell tape cover

and some poems I never had the guts to print.

I gave it to someone who deserved

so, so much less.

Took my pillow and slept there

when nightmares came down from the ceiling

on a delicate silver string.

Every answered door.

Good-byes.

Sundays spent away from churches.

The last steps of his bulky, clumsy feet.

My hands rolling it up —

placed beside the big blue dumpster

the day I moved into a house

with hardwood floors.