The Secrets of Skeletons
The closet is crowded with more
than clothes, stuffed with stilettos
and secrets. The spikes and flats
of yesterdays storms and silence,
and ivory memories with marrow
of hollowed promises. They clank
in the calendars wind and echo
through the bedroom
when you swing the door wide.
Dress for the day, the doorknob
mutters. Drape yourself
in white, the almighty color
of whispering bones that hang
and jangle from hooks you hide
behind the lacquered wood
of dreams and days
that talk in your sleep
and walk on the water you weep.
If you've any comments on this poem, Patrick Carrington would be pleased to hear from you.