napwrimo day no 9

  

the drawing room 

 

 

In the museum, time freezes 

and tilts The squirrels, who have just 

begun a game of cards will forever 

 

be casting their chips and hedging  

their bets.  Edging tipsy and stumbling 

through the parlor.  No sooner 

 

have you rounded them up, no longer 

can you tell if they are living or dead. 

Their red tails stiff, but feathering 

 

in the breeze from the window. No  

sooner have you locked them 

In place than there are more of them 

 

populating your dreams, wielding  

swords and dinner knives.  

Their bones long gone, their eyes.  

 

What’s left inside them, a tuft 

of hide and bits of sawdust 

That arranges the party. 

 

Then invites us in.