The cupboard perfect for hide-and-seek,

by the gray small bathroom up the steps,

behind gray-blue painted doors,

next to the sink where I’d washed the white paint

out of the brushes,

the white paint for the garage with its dirty paint peeling,

the spiky mat  by the shaky cellar door,

the black tank,

the wooden boards on the ceiling

with the six spraypainted white names,

the curious white foam

and the dirty cracks in the white walls,

the soft green and white Celtics ball,

the small windows high up sitting just above

the flat trimmed grass outside,

the fixtures with bingo and the penny roller,

the metal columns, the dusty lightbulb,

and that old unstable dark brown wooden desk,

carved up,

with the name Bill confidently scratched in.

The adults talk upstairs,

and the cousins play,

while one sits behind the old wooden desk,

opens it up,

and goes to work dreaming.


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