Inscrutable Sonnets

9

Like an idol that will not be approached,
you sit in your house crammed with the flotsam
of years: melamine plates sharing space with old
dictionaries and law journals, umbrellas hung
on the bannister like pennants for the next
festival of rain. In the corner, the sewing
machine is an island overgrown with a vegetation
of cardboard boxes and plastic hangers. The upright
piano looms like a derelict volcano under a flannel
throw. When someone pries its ancient lid open, the notes
make sounds of discolored ivory. Do the bean curd vendors
ever knock at the gate anymore? What do the neighbors think
when they see you shuffle out to the driveway bristling
with your arsenal of keys, gnarled hands on your hips?

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