Between 8th and 9th Avenues, Right Across from the Hospital

I couldn't sleep last night (probably the chocolate frosting, but I digress), and this little poem floated into my brain, and came out of my fingers.

When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.

I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?