Our home has been opened
as a museum.
There are the patched up holes in the wall
and recorded stories
for each one.
There are the broken plates and mugs,
in the cabinet;
at least the ones who's handles were glued
back on, and the others that only retained chips.
They have their stories as well.
And there are the stained stairs,
the spills being the least of what fell.
And the two broken doors,
the one with the visible gash,
and the one leading to the patio
with the torn dangling screen.
They all have similar stories.
But the oldest one,
and the least believable,
is the one that goes with the marked up bedpost,
and busted springs.
That's probably the only one you'll need to hear.
Outside, two tall wilting tulips take the tired posture
we never did.