Doily

Coffee and pine-sol meander through stale air.

Musty New York Times and National Geographics

lay stacked in disarray on Queen Anne chairs.

 

There is no court here – no surrender to ordered protocols.

Just remnants of memory,

pieces adrift in the air,

dancing through lace curtains in the setting sun.

 

Night comes soon enough – endless night,

when evening habit calls

from a darkened bedroom

and forgetfulness and a misplaced self seeks refuge.

 

A lace doily lingers

on a battered white table.

No symmetry spoils its placement.

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