Friday, August 26, 2016

The Back Bedroom

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.

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