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.
The Upstairs Room
Analysis, meaning and summary of Weldon Kees's poem The Upstairs Room
Do you have any comments, criticism, paraphrasis or analysis of this poem that you feel would assist other visitors in understanding the meaning or the theme of this poem by Weldon Kees better? If accepted, your analysis will be added to this page of American Poems. Together we can build a wealth of information, but it will take some discipline and determination.
