Drowning in the Basement of Goodwill by Connor Deeks

Drowning in the Basement of the Goodwill by Connor Deeks

 

In the musty light, in the thin brown air

Of damp carpets and rotting yellow mold,

Surrounded by crashing waves of old shirts,

Foamy peaks of ragged old jean jackets,

Sails a short man covered in dirt and dust,

The salty spray of an ocean given away.

 

This short, old man stands trying on glasses,

Some far-sighted, some near-sighted, none though

Will be the some that fit their future eyes.

 

An old box rips at the corner, a surge

of used and mismatched towels and towelettes

splash at his feet, his shoes holding the same

company; they could be on the shelf too.

 

The old man slips overboard into the
Sea of unwanted: 42 lamps sink,

3 broken vacuums drown, 9 children’s books.

He disappears beneath the blue, the blue

Of denim, size 27 to 40,

None of which long enough to fit anyone.

 

He gasps for air, fighting the riptide of

Old telephone wires and colored jump ropes,

His thrashing cause the brown treasure chests of

Thousand-year-old candy bars to tumble,

Acting as an anchor, these ancient chests

Obliterate any hope of surfacing,

 

He starts to lose hope, he accepts defeat,

Laying in his watery grave full of

Old shirts, old pants, old shoes, old toys, old things,

His last breath is stifled by an old tape,

A poor copy of a nameless movie.

  

___________________________________________________________________________________
Poem of the Day: In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

Posted: Thu, 25 Apr 2013 00:00:00 -0600

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.