The House is a Bungalow

The house is a bungalow
built in 1955
red brick
a new birch tree in the yard
kitchen and living room along the front
three bedrooms across the back
one bathroom with pink fixtures
and pink tiles
a boy, nine-years-old, brush-cut hair
sits by the picture window
on the red chair that his uncle reupholstered
he sees their cat
cross the street
paw prints in the snow
he is wearing baby blue socks
new, clean on the soles
his pyjamas are patterned with zoo animals
the couch across from him
is brown, itchy to sit on
arms so low his father won’t nap on it
hurts his father’s goddamn neck
two paint by numbers
hang high
over the fireplace
his father did them
a mountain and a lake
a forest and a stream
the boy’s blue, sometimes green, eyes
face the TV cabinet
walnut brown veneer makes it look
(his mother thinks) posh
woven mesh covers the speakers
below the screen
gold buttons
tint
brightness
colour - he isn’t supposed to touch this one
ever
the channel dial
with a little window
shows 4
he is watching
his favourite show
a gentle, bumbling mock Frankenstein
who quickly became funnier than scary
and drives the coolest hotrod
there is a bowl of chips
on the coffee table
that his dad made
a two-tiered monster that the boy loves
because it has drawers
his mother hates it, too tippy
his mother is in the kitchen
with his two sisters
the tiled floor
is yellow from a paste wax
called “Klear”
from the corner windows
over the sink
he can see his school
which bothers him
especially on Sunday night
his sisters are
getting their hair permed
they call it
getting a Toni
the smell is horrible
stings your eyes
his younger sister passed out
the last time
her head smacked the table
his mom says
she should eat more
she wouldn’t faint
and not look so pale
anaemic
his mother’s tall hair is wrapped
in a scarf
so it won’t bend
the boy comes into the kitchen
hungry
his mother warns him
of a stomach ache
too much crap
no more chips
he asks about cheesies
his sister looks dizzy
his mother feels her forehead
says she’s the sickly type
looks back to him
she says she couldn’t care less
don’t wipe your hands on the furniture
he goes to his room
model cars
chevs, fords, a souped up VW
cowboy curtains
he can barely see over the window sill
only the top of the willow tree
its bare swaying branches
the boy thinks about Christmas
less than a month away
the holidays, no school
on Christmas eve
last year
at three in the morning
he hid in the hall
listening
while his parents
struggled
assembling a dollhouse
they fought
in whispers
the boy already knew
about Santa
in the summer
he found all his
Christmas letters in
the cedar chest
back on the red chair
with the cheesies
in a plastic bowl
he wipes the orange powder
on his pyjamas
and waits for a
Nestlé’s Quik
commercial to end