TITLE

Linoleum

Of my summers spent
Shifting from home to home
The place I most remember
Is the one with the
Cold linoleum floors

I wasn't there very long
A season or two at most
And it was during the summer
When no rain patted down
The dust that swept into town

In the house I was often alone
Accompanied by the ticking
Of the magnificant grandfather clock
Sitting at the end of the hallway
At the top of the stairs

I also remember that
There wasn't much to do
So often I sat beneath the clock
And read books snitched from
The small library

And in the corners of hallways
Unattended, sat great cacti
So out of place with the
Cold linoleum floors
Which I remember so well

One day I decided I would
Paint the blank wall
Between the two largest bookcases
And as I carried the paint in
I tripped on a loose tile

Out of my small, child's arms
Flew the red paint I was
Planning to use first
and it smeared across the floor
Spilling out of the can

And no matter how hard I scrubbed
And how many bars of soap
I wasted in the process
I still couldn't destroy the
Evidence of my fall

And I bruised my knees
From perching on them for hours
As I pained my arms
And calloused my knuckles
Scrubbing off the paint

And I remember how ashamed
I'd been the rest of the summer
And then amazingly frustrated
When my unattentive foster parents
Didn't even notice my spill

.~*~.

I went through a phase where I really liked linoleum tiles, and tried to write a few short stories with linoleum tiles in them (yeah, I'm weird) and then just stopped. That was mid-October. I came back to this while on Christmas break and finished it. I have a few theories as to what it means, but you can draw your own conclusions. Dated December 24th, 2004.