OLD THINGS
As a young woman,
I’d wander around my mother’s home
and find corners of distressed clutter
which begged for brown-papered flight
to naked people who'd find God
in piles of old clothes.
The Bakelite burner failed
to enlighten as to why my mother
was so moved by Depression glass
in boxes of cornflakes.
Peach silk lingered with faded crepe,
and frayed scraps of lacy veils
unravelled long dead vows.
Utility brides poised on council steps
armed with big eared men, geared
for civilisation in bags of grey twill,
the lonely Irish
hearts flapping
in the English wind.
Later, a faded affair
freed from oak drawers, creaky
with dirt. An unknown French hand
elegant in blue italics,
runs wet on wet.
She never understood resistance.
A silk stocking lying stale.
Its partner lost.
As an old woman, I wander.
2006-12-07
06:53:10
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asked by
MissRemorse
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