-what we think of what we use-

there are treasures to be found
all over the house,—

in every closet, every drawer.
impenetrable, cracked, dark-
green planes of the shades
cover the windows
when the streetlights go on.

no hot water but that
which is potted and drawn
from the kitchen sink,
placed upon the burner and transported
to the tub.

eggs are delivered to us in the morning
fresh enough that chicken-shit
and straw from the coops dot the shells
in muted yellows and greens.
ice is delivered too,—
and coal to fire the furnace,
pushed down the chute at the narrow
window below the tenement by the shovel
of a dust-covered laborer
into a waiting bin in the cellar.

there are brooms to reinvent
from sweeping to swatting

and the heavy-patterned paper
is damp and stained, plastered
to the horse-haired walls.

the "looking-glass radio," as my sister
defined the television set, is busy

with the earliest activity,

the growing pains of the cosmos
hissing in the backlight at the time
when everything was being made.

there are spools of thread to unwind,
lifted from the metal
cookie-pan filled with them.
the treasures of my young mother,—
the confiscated implements
of our new inventiveness.

mercurochrome
sits like an angel of mercy
in the medicine cabinet
ready to cure our wounds,
paint our faces, or fill
the curiosity of our nostrils.

cans of Campbell's soup
are readied to be employed
for street games, and as headlights
for the orange-crate racers.

if the soup cans are full, and the need is great,
we’ll empty them, clogging the sink.

there isn’t a level floor in the place,—

in the house, our tenement, where all of life
is played-out,—

where the chain of the high toilet-tank
is repaired with wire

holding the links in place at three points.

Its wooden handle sometimes
swings lazily like a pendulum in waiting,—

swings as a whisper
for no apparent reason.
It’s shaped like a narrow pear

and it’s chipped near the top, at the little
brass cap where it meets the chain.

they're all chipped like that.
all the toilet-chain handles
all over the city. 

but in a wind, the small
skylight's pane of glass
above the bowl will rattle,

sending shivers down the spines of sitters.
so this is why the pendulum swings.
it swings for thee.

then the secret things behind the flower-
print curtain under the toilet's sink
expose themselves.

these utensils belong to a different universe,

a dark side with its winding
tubes and menacing nozzles

and pads of every description, mostly

used for things of the blood.

had I known, I'd have run,
screaming for my life.

plungers are employed everyday.
orange for regular clogs,—
the big black one reserved when muscle-
power is needed.

plungers made things work again.

they free the sinks of chicken noodle soup
sitting like a paste in the gully of the pipe.

plungers made the water go down.
made the world go round.
we'll hide all the stuff we nab

under the porch.

my sister is sitting on a fucking gold mine.

she and her friends from the Academy
use the things of her bedroom in ways
I’d never have dreamed of.



                                      Quequechan