Vanitas

[71degrees]

Even in my own home,
I feel a need to whisper,
and although Emerson
would approve,
transcendental like,
I am forever accused
of talking to myself;

I patiently explain
in a series of low tones
how it is with the early
American furniture,
the skull, the books,
the pulled blinds,
and the picture of fruit,
how the pears have moved;
how our yellow canary
is always giving me
that look of guilt;
how the arm chair
glider has lost
its ability to glide;
how I wish to opine
about the eloquence
of the bedroom doorknob

Instead, I sit quietly
on the couch,
my soft voice
almost a dutch mixture
of color, light, and texture

I swear I could make a living
thing out of my teacup
if she would sit still
and really listen to me