In the Living Room by: Nicole Busch

In the Living Room

By: Nicole Busch

In the bright lit light, the thin, dusty air

of slick hardwood floors and worn out carpets,

torn from the claws of a golden fluff ball,

old enough now to know the difference.

He’s laying down now, calm and collected,

staring at you with his great round, brown eyes.

Beneath the big rooms the humans sleep in,

the nailed down newly furnished white carpet,

smell still so new to my innocent nose,

the sound of screaming when you take a step.

To your right you see a staircase that leads,

who knows where, you’ve never taken the brave

journey before; you guess it leads somewhere

familiar, you are sure you’ve been before.

The steps so taunting, beckoning you to

come close, the pattern is so deceiving,

are those flowers? Spirals? Or little vines?

To your left you see a big, neat kitchen,

and a well dressed woman, cooking something,

you swear that you’ve seen her before, but where?

She’s wearing jeans, a purple top and a

red frilly apron, I wonder if that

she wears it for her personality.

She stands, trying on her glasses, reading,

flipping through her handwritten recipes.

Looking up at you, she smiles her most

sincere smile, one that you recognize,

so you smile back, look down at the notes

on the recipe, get out your apron,

and help her to bake her famous cookies.

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In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

BY TED KOOSER

In musty light, in the thin brown air   

of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,   

beneath long rows of sharp footfalls   

like nails in a lid, an old man stands   

trying on glasses, lifting each pair

from the box like a glittering fish   

and holding it up to the light

of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap   

of enameled pans as white as skulls   

looms in the catacomb shadows,   

and old toilets with dry red throats   

cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You’ve seen him somewhere before.   

He’s wearing the green leisure suit   

you threw out with the garbage,   

and the Christmas tie you hated,   

and the ventilated wingtip shoes   

you found in your father’s closet   

and wore as a joke. And the glasses   

which finally fit him, through which   

he looks to see you looking back—

two mirrors which flash and glance—

are those through which one day

you too will look down over the years,   

when you have grown old and thin   

and no longer particular,

and the things you once thought   

you were rid of forever

have taken you back in their arms.