Poem by Christopher Woods
At your mother’s estate sale
People looked at this and that,
Whatever had accumulated
Over eighty years.
Some bought.
Others drove away
Without a word.
Best of all was the old couple
Who bought the antique
Windsor chair.
They inspected it,
Taking their time, even
Bringing out a tape measure
So they might know
How high the seat
Was from the floor.
Their eyes brightened.
They were gloriously happy,
And paid for the chair
Without a bit of bickering.
Afterwards, I carried the thing
Out to the car for them.
We’re so pleased, the woman said.
I’m glad for you, I said.
We’ve looked for this chair
For years, the man said.
It’s for our collection, she added.
Collection? I asked.
Oh yes, the woman said.
For our doll collection.
This will be Marie Osmond’s chair.
She’s waited so long. So very long.
After they drove away,
I thought about the old couple.
I thought about all of us.
How we with so much
Are doomed to collect more,
How it gets worse with time,
Until we find ourselves entombed
With all the lovely things
That somehow seemed to matter.
Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, Under a Riverbed Sky, and a collection of stage monologues for actors, Heart Speak. His play, Moonbirds, about doomed census-takers at work in an uninhabited desert country, received its New York City premiere at Personal Space Theatrics. He lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill , Texas .
Jeff Crouch is an internet artist; he lives in Grand Prairie, Texas . Google “Jeff Crouch” to see what he currently has on the internet or go to: http://www.blueprintreview.de/6jeff_crouch.htm.
