Antiques Not For Sale

The House is full of stuff my husband saves; A pair of bentwood rockers, goose-neck armed. His grandparents sat in these, discordant creaks Punctuating arguments. No one sits there now. There where they are we do not need the chairs Nor the table with the wobbly center post. The sewing machine, treddle run, would work But belts and bobbins no longer can be found. The old piano, a gift from grandma for a child Who thought he’d learn to play. He never did, The keys are out of tune, but the wood-- The curly maple keeps its seasoned glow. A hundred other things that take up space Flowered lamps, a bowl back mandalin. Newer things would go there just as well, We only keep them for the tales they tell.