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.