Ugly wallpaper
With a golden hue.
Inherited from the previous owner.
What right had they,
His parents,
To question another's taste?
Two twin beds
Crowded the smallest bedroom.
Two teenagers
Each with their own secrets.
The back of each twin bed
Was brown laminate.
The younger son propped himself up,
Sucked into a red-stained novel
Beyond his years.
The yellow ceiling light
Was insufficient.
He knew that
He wanted to write,
But could not imagine
What a writer was.
How could he fill up
The blank white page?
The two bedspreads
Were a darker brown.
He hid the red paperback
Under his mattress
Tucked tight.
He went outside
In search of green.
His Mother wore
A blue tweed skit.
Remaking the bed,
She found
The scarlet novel
Of awakening urges.
She searched the room,
Found his black ink jottings.
“I will not tell your Father,”
She quietly threatened.
“He is under
Too much stress...”
Drinking the amber Canadian Club.
“His company.
What makes you think
You are old enough
To read such things?”
The furtive book was taken,
Thrown into the kitchen’s gray garbage can.
She paused,
Lowering her voice,
Gesturing toward the jottings,
“Writing?
How can you write
When you have not lived?
Put away your pen.
Wait for experience.”
He moved on past
Ugly wallpaper
With a golden hue.
Journeyed and lived
In garish reds and oranges.
Eventually,
Risking much,
He took up writing again.
Too late
Or too soon?
