This Old House

Wandering the memory rooms
of this old house, cluttered with
this and that, and nothing I’m
looking for, because I know not
what I’m looking for.
A clock stuck, with nowhere to go.
A book open to a wordless page.
Clothes no longer in style, if they ever were.
Furniture no longer used, gathers dust,
hiding treasures between the cushions.
Briefcase that holds no work, nor future.
A window lets in a thin wind, that remembers
something about cold and ice, but shows
nothing of what’s outside, or what’s to come.
The clutter that will never be clear,
wrestles with, moves and reappears.
And a too small mattress, bows in the middle,
from a time when we didn’t seem to mind.