The mannequin in the second hand store
droops in sateen skirt and argyle vest.
In the tavern window, pink flamingos perch
among beer signs and sports banners.
I go home to my own arrangements.
I wash the crystal bowl–light pours
and plays across the wall.
Charcoal sketches repeat the shadows.
I shield this room from clutter–someone’s lighter,
a stray pen, the mail. I dust it daily.
My life depends on it.
In time, I toss in accidentals–a found stone,
gray and water worn,
or strike a note of dissonance–
with a red cloisonné spoon.
My hands sense other worlds.
I reach out…Object Place Object…
For a long while, dust
slips through the light, transparent as silverfish.
Perhaps it’s random after all.
In the morning, I will collect my thoughts.
© Copyright February 1, 1999 by Sara Hall
All Rights Reserved