LIMBOHOUSE                                    1987



The arguments are more frequent
The smiles are pale and thin
Laughter forced and hollow
Despair sets in again

Here, both are in purgatory
In our chosen captive life
Waiting for a man to cast adrift
His only son and lonely wife

Patricide, Matricide, Suicide

Walk these rooms of memory
As every day becomes a year
We have no goals, no hopes or dreams
Only an atmosphere

All human crimes revealed
Family a past imperfect tense
Three years of this waiting
And dying from suspense.

/// The divorce was one on the list, which the the 
psychiatrist chuckled over . At the time, I only saw 
it as one less parent in the house. The truth caught
up two years later.///