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.