My Grandfather's Living Room

Its windows were bare
To the outside world,
But it didn't matter in the least,
For they hadn't been touched for decades,
Making them translucent
Rather than the transparent kind
Found in most ordinary, tidy homes.

The only sounds heard
Between spoken words
Within the room
Were the crackling fire
In the fireplace
And the ticking clock
Above the blackened mantle.
Time itself stood still.
So, our only way
Of knowing even moments had passed
Was when the clock
Hammered out the arrival
Of each hour
For the listening ears
Of little ones waiting to go home.

Its walls and ceiling
Were of unfinished Sheetrock,
Without even the slightest hope
Of ever being covered
By anything other than soot
From the coal-burning fireplace
And the yellowing of time.

The linoleum on the floor
Was the color of charcoal.
Had this covering
Ever displayed a pattern of any kind?
I don't know,
Since none was visible
Anywhere about the room,
Just as if
It were some sort of
Wall-to-wall tar paper,
With boards of the same color
Peeking through right here and over there.

Too, if one were superstitious,
A cob-webbed horseshoe
Hung above the doorway,
Warding off evil
Or creating good fortune,
Whichever was needed
At any given time.

All Rights Reserved 2009 by David Lee Thompson