Eighteen pieces of furniture in the basement.
Eighteen parts of a life left behind
In the musty basement of a prep school dorm.
There is a fridge, used for three years now.
There's a beanbag, donated
To poor,
Beanbag-less me by some senior.
There is a plastic drawer
Filled with band-aids never used,
And rusting letters from home.
There are books
Upon books,
Upon books.
I should throw some out,
But they're really kind of beautiful.
Things wouldn't be the same without them.
So I won't.
Crates,
And shelves, and
Plastic boxes.
Rotting away.
Lonely-like.
No comments:
Post a Comment