A trampled
shag rug
leads
to the furnace room, and
the sequestered
vinyl davenport
the woman wants to sell
“My mother’s,” she breathes
tracing dust
with an aging finger
hauling the
couch seat open;
a smooth olive plane
“My mother’s house,”
she sighs
mounting steps
to vacant chambers
where
draperies droop
perpetual
as though
from dry absence
her mother
will someday
return
