((Whit Holland challenged me to write about an ordinary object close at hand, and now I challenge you all to do the same. :) Use #knickknacks if you participate.))
I.
Something about
corduroy
seems old from
beginning and
chocolate brown
hides stains
less effectively
thank you might
surmise (cat hair
even less), but
there is something
to be said for
free when
shipping off to
a second degree.
Four roommates
(one almost
married), three
lovers (one previously
mentioned), two
states (but not that
far), and one
hard-won diploma
later, there is
still something
to be said for
free, and for
familiar and
perhaps also
for family.
II.
In my kitchen
there sits a
teapot
small, porcelain,
vaguely oriental,
floral-patterned and
stained
in the creases,
a ring of
bergamot brown
lining center. You
live
in that tea-ring,
in faded exit signs,
in owl-boxes and
memory,
bitter-sweet like
Earl Grey.
III.
Mom says they
just don’t make
clothes
like they used to:
sturdy, thick-
woven denim
never popped a
button, but
cuter
with the sleeves
cuffed. It
doesn’t matter
how many of
us
wear Papa’s
old jacket, it’ll
still be here
when we’re gone.
IV.
On my little
table, between
notebook and old
lamp there sits a
perfect pinecone.
It smells a bit like
my siblings on
a fall day,
drenched in
leaf-bits, crunched
underfoot and
piled to make
walls and
beds and
pillows. We were
prepared
to live there,
beneath boughs,
beneath clouds
and dreams— maybe
one of them
knows
why we left.
