It is only seen,

When

Eyes move rapidly,

And

The smoke has all but cleared.

And the late-night game-shows begin to

Give away all the answers.

And

Standing

In

The

Corner

With a hat

Or

Two or three.

Like a sleuth,

Dressed in stealth.

(Inadvertently tucked into the shadows)

Perhaps it is a

Cast iron Christmas tree,

And it’s ornaments

Are not  quite so trivial.

Sometimes it is an intruder.

Yet this only lasts a moment.

It is a piece of furniture

That is considered everything, but.

The often confused coat-rack,

This pillar of servitude.

A visible extension of

The closet

That is

Too shy

For its own good,

Spreads its arms,

&

Welcomes all  travelers.

&

Takes jackets wet or dry.

Offers stability to a room

Where the  decorated mantle is selfishly

The center of attention.

It will gather dust,

Like any other

Resident, but

It will so,

With astounding resolve.

It might even have the

Only and distinct

Pleasure

(Among the other household contestants.)

(For  at least the length of a rain-storm)

To know what it’s like,

To actually hold an umbrella.

It can be a place for the hats,

To hang

Their weary heads.

Then the  silent sleep timer,

Goes off,

On the tired television.

Filled with tired applause.

And all the living eyeballs,

That barely cling to cognition.

Finally shut.

Finally.

&

The apparition.

The coat-rack,

Can be just that.