There chatters the clocks and timepieces
In a one-room basement of abandoned things
Where the dust is swept and the old rugs rolled
Sitting, the books of childhood and the great-aunts
Prim in photographs no one living recalls
Doilies tatted by a distant hand
Wooden blocks stacked by a boy turned man
The records fitted like vinyl dishes
Glued by inertia and cobwebs to never teeter, or shatter
RED GLADIOLA 