I have the smell and imprint
of newsprint on my skin.
The paper keeps me warm
in this place I don't call home.
It's just a space
to hide my face and rest my bones.
I have another piece of paper
that avers I'm Charlie Walker:
A photo crossed with a stamp.
But a black smear of damp
on rotting veneer
is nearer to my portrait in this dump.
I have a peeling memory
of a family split by enmity.
Cold tears running down the walls
erase the patterns I recall.
Nursery wallpaper,
worn to tatters, falls and casts a pall.
