Dust collects politely in monogrammed champagne flutes , and on top of pictures that haven’t moved since they last sat in mansions.
While some of the pictures,
That were purposely
Hung askew on crooked walls so that the walls themselves might one day be straight.
These crooked pictures complete with compelling images etched in watercolor.
Scenes reminiscent of the pioneer days,
Complete with wagon wheels leaned up against trees that bear no leaves, and
In the middle of overgrown cornfields,
That carefully hide coiled snakes, coon-skin hats,
Cabins off in the distance with billows of smoke ten miles long…
However their is surprisingly,
starch stark contrast;
Some occupants of this room, pass by/through untouched,
by brushstroke, cursory glance, glasses of water, or otherwise…
Like careful ghosts, tiptoeing around the campfire.
A nightstand complete with a lamp that is never lit sits next to a window that is never open.
Next to the lamp leans a picture in a gaudy green frame,
Circular in shape, and in theme and in origin.
And when the sun shines just right, through that filthy window,
It appears as though the suns very shadow has been cast onto the floor,
Unlike any crown of thorns,
A lot more like spilled milk, or an oil spill.
The dusty nightstand has scars of its own,
Scales of it’s own.
Rings that at the time were thought to be temporary,
But after coats of armor and furniture polish failed to conquer the rings,
They are now left as a reminder, a lesson, a souvenir
To use a coaster.
Rings that came to be from sweaty glasses,
Some of them more full of solutions then others.
Or the rings could have fallen from the waists of Saturn, & Neptune,
Like a discarded belt.
Which would inevitably explain some of the moons in the galaxy.
Left to sweat in the sun when the room lived a more exposed life.
When proprietors would set up shop on daybeds and read sonnets aloud, like optimistic bards, in the sunlight,
in the sunlight.
The withered belt,
Planetary or not,
Is usually left next to the laundry basket after a long day at the office.
Next a case of potpourri
Next to an unloaded hunting rifle.
As a gentle breeze blows outside through the tops of trees.
These rings wont necessarily tell the age of the room.
They will not take the temperature, either.
Mercury is absent here in every way, shape or form.
A museum room,
A man on the moon,
This room which accumulates all the dust and virtually no traffic.
No thoroughfare and no economic stimulation,
A bed where no one rests,
A rocking chair that never rocks,
And curtains that occasionally rustle,
Giving the impression of occupation, or humanity.
Tiaras and scarves of worn in winters past exist here only in dreams,
Thick coats, pockets heavy with forgotten change, hang quietly in closets.
Because the piggy-banks cant be trusted
Exiled by grammar, and changing seasons.
The reality is more contingent on the smell of purple iodine and mountains of mothballs,
and suitcases with absolutely nothing in them.
Much like the captains quarters on a sailing ship;
Or the set of a movie;
Filled to the brim with rubies so common,
Extra chairs, and other miscellaneous furniture
Wrapped carefully in sheets like in the tomb of some ancient Egyptian Pharaoh.
Some of the collectibles are placed higher on mantles, where the air is much thinner,
And questions can be avoided,
Renegade pocket watches swing like the tails of content cats,
Old trophies that come to life and hit home runs at night,
And ceramic figurines that only ever sit on a bench, and never, ever move.