The walls are empty,
pocked with nail holes,
shadows of pictures―
a room without windows.
Too many years
since the piano was tuned.
Behind the sofa no longer
a good place to hide.
Laughter sleeps like stones
under shroud sheets.
I have forgotten
the dance, the lampshade.
I pull a chamois from my pocket―
not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.
Dust smells new: a scent of yellow.
The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.
I could use a shovel.
tk/March 2014
R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:
