Who Rearranged the Furniture?
by Paul Hooker
Who rearranged the furniture in my room?
Why do I keep running into things
once settled and conveniently secure
so I could pass among them in the dark
unconcerned that I might stub my toe
on familiar things in unfamiliar places?
Why’s the sofa here that should be there
while the recliner’s clear over there too far
from the crane-necked lamp I nightly use
to read of other lives, if not my own?
And did I not store that table in the basement
to hide the scars and scratches of a careless past?
Too soon the dawn will chase away the darkness,
and I will see this room through other eyes.