The closet is musty with cold mildew.
The cut-rate carpenter glued sheets of plywood
to the concrete block foundation with no
penny of thought for insulation or worse.
Glue hardens instantly in Oklahoma wind
and the gaps appear, moisture dripping in.
Carpet breeds green blobs, cotton dresses
filling with the thick damp odor of acorns.
Mice leave black dots speckling the green.
White crickets shelter in the toes of her shoes.
Streaks of black fungus shoot up the brown wall,
a picket fence of spongy residue.
No one but Montie knows. No one shares
the secret biology of her closet.
2 thoughts on “Her Closet”
the question of the week:
was the cut-rate carpenter religious ?
that’s an excellent question–and another poem in itself