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More poems by Weldon KeesWeldon Kees | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Weldon KeesBooks by Weldon Kees

The Upstairs Room

Weldon Kees

It must have been in March the rug wore through.
Now the day passes and I stare
At warped pine boards my father's father nailed,
At the twisted grain. Exposed, where emptiness allows,
Are the wormholes of eighty years; four generations' shoes
Stumble and scrape and fall
To the floor my father stained,
The new blood streaming from his head. The drift
Of autumn fires and a century's cigars, that gun's
Magnanimous and brutal smoke, endure.
In March the rug was ragged as the past. The thread
rots like the lives we fasten on. Now it is August,
And the floor is blank, worn smooth,
And, for my life, imperishable.

Added: 2 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 17 Nov 2018 2:59 PM | Viewed: 5716 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3097/ | Viewed on 17 November 2018.
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