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Weldon Kees - The Upstairs Room

It must have been in March the rug wore through.
Now the day passes and I stare
At warped pine boards my father's father nailed,
At the twisted grain. Exposed, where emptiness allows,
Are the wormholes of eighty years; four generations' shoes
Stumble and scrape and fall
To the floor my father stained,
The new blood streaming from his head. The drift
Of autumn fires and a century's cigars, that gun's
Magnanimous and brutal smoke, endure.
In March the rug was ragged as the past. The thread
rots like the lives we fasten on. Now it is August,
And the floor is blank, worn smooth,
And, for my life, imperishable.

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Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 4120 times | Comments and analysis of The Upstairs Room by Weldon Kees Comments (6)

The Upstairs Room - Comments and Information

Poet: Weldon Kees
Poem: The Upstairs Room
Poem of the Day: Sep 5 2013

Comment 6 of 6, added on February 1st, 2017 at 12:18 AM.

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useful source from Luxembourg
Comment 5 of 6, added on December 31st, 2015 at 1:46 PM.


tTATMSsHEd from Costa Rica
Comment 4 of 6, added on November 28th, 2015 at 8:53 AM.

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