The Rug My Father Gave Me
The rug my father gave me
was wine dark,
with deep reds and chocolate,
late night treats.
Not a fancy carpet,
marred with garish patterns and styles,
but a solid clock of colour.
A carpet from my childhood,
to replace the bare woodwork,
its unaccustomed length frightened me;
but these fancies faded.
Then a pristine rug, with colours crisp,
threads stuck closely to the ground,
not thick enough to grab or grip.
As the years walked on,
treading the fibers,
the close-cropped nature wore away,
and it frayed and frayed.
In my bored teens,
I found myself clipping it,
trying to bring it back
to its younger state.
Later, its depths more enjoyed,
fingers buried in its matted warmth;
the rug was a pillow to my delirium,
mornings buried in it.
Smoked cigarettes hung like fog,
clearing our thoughts,
in the nights where we lay together;
the heat we shed lasting in its shag.
It saw great battles,
the blood of the months;
worn by my nerves, our passions;
stained by drinks and drunks.
We spent long nights in its deep lake,
watching the fire burn to embers;
the cycles of the moon
the only time we needed.
Those were times of bliss,
listening to the hum of the world,
on the rug my father gave me.
