From a Car, Gazing at My Boyhood House

I think I can see my bedroom's peeling wallpaper,
the gaps around my bed, the penned-in notes
to Lynnette and later Marla.  I can hear the night's creepy
hush interrupted by my alarm clock's sticking second-hand,
feel my stocking-clad feet gliding over cold slate
and reaching the refrigerator door to regain balance.
And there's my mother and father at the top of the stairs.
She's lipping a burned-out cigarette and he's on a box 
trying to wrest a light bulb from the broken socket.