Funny, it never bothered me
before, to sniff the rooms
of the anonymous widow.
Furniture gone, fern-patterned
china stacked on the linoleum,
the cash-cow card table
in the entry, with plenty
of zip-locked costume jewelry.
I’d casually grope unknown cupboards,
sunny, like choosing a tomato
at the grocery. But this time, it feels
like I swallowed an umbrella,
opened, whole, as if I’m in cahoots
with the devil. The stale ghost
of a dress hangs chiaroscuro
in a shallow closet, faded
scarves raped from bureau
drawers and I realize I’ve left
my sense of humor
in my other purse, knowing
every dog will have its day.
Tess Kincaid
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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