Monday, March 9, 2009

Old New England Houses

smelled of cedar chests
and lemon oil.
High ceilings,
polished wooden floors,
endless repeating
clusters of grapes
along the walls.
There were no random objects
dropped behind the couch,
jammed into the back of a drawer.
Each thing was known, counted,
laid away in its rightful place.
Although some were mysterious -
a breast pump?
My dead grandfather's
two unsmoked cigars.

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