When we moved to Los Angeles
In 1966 after Dad died
My new bedroom was half the size
Of my Long Island Cape Cod space.
My short lived step-father
Worked for a poster company
I plastered posters like Funny Girl and Nancy Sinatra
From the floor to ceiling.
The naked ceiling light
Had an Asian lantern shade.
The dusty window slats
Looked out to the courtyard
Of our Flores apartment.
My uncle had given me a phonograph player
That had an exposed screw
Attached the turntable
It would cut grooves into my albums
As a companion piece
To the pops and scratches
on my Barbra Streisand albums.
I slammed my plywood door
Sang Don’t Rain on My Parade
With Barbra
Until my vocal cords, threatened to explode.
Because compromised hearing
Made me tone deaf.
The square furniture
Moved around the room
I had attempted to stain
blonde baby furniture
that would travel to Los Angeles.
Despite sanding,
The wood stain refused
To be absorbed into the finish.
As though it was rebelling against change.
The only option
Was to paint the brown finish.
The remaining brush waves
Reminded me of Rockaway Beach
When my Dad
Ran into the water
With me held in his arms.