Ontology of the Miniature Room

If life is a stage, then props are its truest
players: minuscule harpsichords strung
with moving keys, tiny books splayed open.
It is best to hint at habitation, but not
insist. Let the slight indent of a bed's
neat coverlet conjure the prim & purring
cat, how it will sleek between candlesticks,
claws hooking the hand-stitched rugs.

Our proof of existence lies not in actions,
but in the traces we leave behind. That chair
pulled out, just so. A satin-green pillow
elbowed askew. To enter a room is to be
flooded by departure, by impressions fixed
upon cushion & wood in silent palimpsest.

Copyright © 2006 Rebecca Dunham All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission