There.

[tectak]

As a kid, my top bunk held my nose so close to the ceiling
I’d hear every shift and groan of that lady up there.
Mama explained the pained, human sounds
were just my night terrors, so I agreed.
But we both knew they weren’t.

Mama kept our place dark in the summers.
It didn’t keep us cooler, just reminded her of home.
The rickety kitchen cabinets were all built too high,
so mama kept a plastic folding footstool
between the refrigerator and the oven.
I used to wonder if it’d ever melt.

During my fifth grade year
I was held back for after school meetings with
the counselor we shared with Holt Elementary.
She asked me questions, and never really believed
about our water heater and the shower faucet
that called the shots. That’s all it was.
I liked the attention though.

Sometimes the water would turn off for a few days
on the third, fourth and fifth floors.
Oskar said no one could figure out why.
But I heard my aunt screaming with mama
at Mr. Mustapha’s door one August
when the stink and heat got too much.
The next day I relished my scalding ice shower.

It wasn’t long after that her knees went out
and five flights of stairs became too much.
Canned chicken noodle and grilled cheese
were ok for a while… but then mama made a deal
with Mrs. Boukari, and I learned grocery shopping.

The water is steady now and the shower less demonic.
Twice a month I fight the battle of keys and locks,
refill the fridge with apples, milk and eggs
and sit on our sunken and bony, peach cream sofa.
We snack on peanut M&Ms from those dollar store bowls
she convinced me were crystal from home,
as she shows me how to fold the mlawi right
and just how long to wait before flipping them.
Then it’s dinner time, grocery store rotisserie with canned beans
and she catches me up on the block’s news
in front of muted re-runs of Dr. Phil.

Hi justcloudy,
Don't hate me for this but you are capable of so much more.
It is a nice story but I cannot honestly find anything whatsoever poetic about it. I would like to comment on at least one poetic attribute or nuance but I would be pissing in the wind. As I said, nice story, empathetic appeal to some, or worse, everyone. I am bored with my own comments on this type of stuff, so christ knows how it must be for everyone else. No further crit from me.
Best,
tectak