Always, There’s Something
Every house hides a story—
ask it about the grout
the knots in the hardwood floor
the dirty secrets we share
between the sink and the sponge.
Days press down on me
like an iron on a silk blouse.
First there are the insufficient wants:
stockpiles of clothes and toys,
movie ticket stubs from 1986
pictures of people I loved once.
And then there is this need
to ask for help, to be impoverished.
I talk to the closet, tell the clothes
my story—they send their regrets,
say, “don't dust anything taller
than your tallest friend.”
Always there’s something
wanting to be something else.
A glass cake dome
becomes a tabletop garden
—a hothouse for baby tears
is a blessed moment of escape.
I have worked on this poem so long that I've put more effort into it than I should. Feedback welcome, but I'm probably going to put it away and never look at it again. Still, it's good to post things that don't work as well as the ones that do. New poem coming for Poetry Thursday.