Carol G. Furtwangler
Single HouseThe day your only son told you we would marry
You escort me through your family’s Charleston single house
Its age described in centuries not decades. You and I both
Stumble climbing up the deep, dark stairs of heart of
Pine that lead to formal parlors and the only salle de bain.
You perch gracious as a princess on your once-plush velvet chair
Of faded purple matching floor-length drapes with pin holes
I can see through, wave me toward a dozen
Cloudy panes of rippled glass to view your Papa’s pond now
Pungent with the odor of decay ’mid formal gardens gone to seed.
Cobwebs float between the pair of tarnished candelabra
On a dusty sideboard. I watch crystal wine decanters catch the
Dimming light reflecting rainbow patterns on the tattered Orientals
Imported from Italy, you murmur. I will never live here. Not too long
From now you will not either.
©2012 Carol G. Furtwangler