Poetry from The Well

The Shape of the Place

Books stand steady in ragged towers

across the living room;

Behind them naked walls stare

pointedly at our new faces.

Cobwebs ripple from the corners of rooms

casting even grayer shadows,

relics of past lives.

The carpet’s tidy streaks beckon

our feet to leave prints trailing

up and down the halls.

Our stuff molds to the shape

of the place, but we’re quiet

as strangers in a foreign church.

Empty boxes bend together, a layered

tribute to past homes. The pearly white

mattress sinks into the carpet,

happy to be anywhere.

There’s nowhere to sit but the dining room

table, set with placemats and floral cloth napkins

and hot coffee, steaming and warming up the place.

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2 thoughts on “The Shape of the Place

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