It lurks lonely, like a figurine
It smells stuffy, like a chintz quilt
The door closed.
Its faded finery, guests long gone
Its pillows thin and soft, clean like powdered snow
Its pincushion, still spikily sharp
The window fogged.
It smells of old, like cold winter silt
It sings of old, unshriven guilt
The wardrobe full.
This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.