nails in a dusty bin rattling like chimes

in the rich lady’s basement i touch things

that haven’t been touched in years.

tottering in high heels, red spilling from

 

my wine glass. fascinated by this space;

a museum of mundane beneath a

sprawling mansion. why was i even

invited? upstairs no one knows who i

 

am. but here, drunk and alone, i see

a moldy old satchel like my dad had

a broken oak table that i saw at a friend’s

lace curtains like grandma’s

everything so familiar to me