it was a Victorian
flat whose foundation
was laid before my
grandparents, father
and mother’s time

we came to this flat
as life tossed us in
many directions in a
dragged out fray of

yet we were
always welcomed
through the front door
carrying brown bags
filled with food made
by brown people

it was Victorian in
style, its elegance
built up over decades
of pavement pounding
decadence that became
stoicism in fermenting fog

a chandelier hung, lights
the color of broken candy
that fell to the floor, leaving
remnants on the baseboards
growing into a permanent

but what i loved
most was the

that musty
smell that hit you
as you climbed the

a convergence of elements
that met, mingled, blended
and claimed your memory

and the Victorian pillars,
entablatures, arches and
banisters are nice in their

but it is the
must that brings
it all together,
creating a home

announcing itself

old bread
old sponges
old racing forms with
spores that stick like
stained glass jars
holding all that has
been withheld

it is the smell
the must
that i must

the must
that tells me

i must
be home

(c) 2015 Tony Robles


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