POEMS


The Darkroom

Papa has a darkroom upstairs, it isn’t really a darkroom,
It’s the water closet, next his and Mama’s bedroom…
A toilet filled with a bunch of photo equipment
Mom hates it, and I, won’t go potty in there,
Even if I have to go bad
There are big brown glass jugs of chemicals…
They clutter the floor and smell bad when Papa
Unscrews the tops
I never saw them opened;
But I know they must smell bad

A dull yellow light bulb hangs from the ceiling;
Papa uses it when he’s in there
One time, I opened the door when the yellow light was lit
Papa yelled at me
And I was right…It smelled really stinky…

But I got to peek inside and see him dipping
Photo paper in a tray filled with liquid;
I bet the tray was filled with dangerous chemicals…
From those big brown glass containers;
Papa used tongs, like the barbeque ones,
But really shinny and clean

The next day when Papa was at work,
I snuck into the darkroom to explore
I wanted a better look at the big brown glass jugs;
The labels were dirty, and looked really old;
There’s a picture on each one,
It’s a skeleton head and some bones;
I couldn’t read the writing,
But I know the word danger isn’t good

I don’t like that darkroom,
And I don’t want Papa in there…
Cuz He won’t let me come in with him