The Wet Blankets Of Childhood Poem by RIC BASTASA

he is tired
drowsy

in the middle
of this stage
he finds images of
melting
memories

same as the old metal
wall clock
dripping on the
wall

floors like
brown sugar mix
with the
carpet and the
shoes

you smell black
pepper
and steam rice
you see
scalding fish
skin
fins separating
like
locks of hair

the feeling is
liquid
flowing like
the usual
river
that you have
been picturing
since

childhood where
you can still
hear the
dissolving laughter
on that
early night earthen
bowl

when darkness is like
a cloak
finally covering
your eyes

neither hot
nor cold
until
you fall asleep

as pain
too
diffuses
like drops of
rain from
the ceiling
to your
bed