Overpowering perfume (rose)
lingers, crushes, blends with mold.
Hangers, scattered on the floor,
some padded with purple velour,
once held cashmere sweaters.
The door of the safe is ajar,
as it has been for years,
the combination hidden too well.
Heavy chains of gold entangle
with a strand of perfect pearls
and a locket that holds a black
and white tattered photo
of her youngest daughter
and a dent from a tiny tooth.
Shelves of shoeboxes overflow—
twenty years worth of receipts,
silent witnesses to money tossed
at frivolity. In my memory I hear
angry words hurled in defense
of wanton spending.
Bell bottoms cavort with
shoulder pads. Browns and beige,
no color. No prints. Just tepid tan and
one black knit suit.
I finger the smoothness
of silk and satin, the texture
of brocades and polyester.
In the far corner a cane leans
against a walker.
The week after she died I moved in.
I worked this poem in response Monday Morning Writing Prompt. While it is based on some aspects of actual closets, the rather dark nuances are a product of my imagination. I invented a lot in order to involve more senses. I hope to see some of your work, too. I welcome any critique/suggestions you may have.