The Cult of Domesticity

The Cult of Domesticity

by Cam M. Roberts
dead tree chinqua penn trail

A dead tree under the November overcast.
© Cam M. Roberts, 2013.

the night
pray tell me
you will stand
still in reverence
near the clean canvas
off its easel we overturned.

Almost lifeless, mostly dead:
Exhausted by everything
while vulnerable to nothing.

Laid out flat upon the floor:
A common doormat,
so simple that it lacks
such libelous words as
Welcome [what Novelty!
what Luxury!] by the threshold –
Mere generic decorum.

It will all soon be gone.
So says I – The Fallen Idolater.
A wild and witless trifle.

One would be better off to burn some incense
wherefore you begin to scatter rose petals
upon a stifling pile of shit.

An anomaly in exile
either stranded on a porch
or lonely upon the vast linoleum –
A clandestine island banished from the archipelago.

We can’t afford such words
without a home to desecrate.

I’ve never been in tandem
with their sacred emblems –
I am my own Totem.


© CMR, 2013