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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535770" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Upstairs Room</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535770" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It must have been in March the rug wore through.<br>Now the day passes and I stare<br>At warped pine boards my father's father nailed,<br>At the twisted grain. Exposed, where emptiness allows,<br>Are the wormholes of eighty years; four generations' shoes<br>Stumble and scrape and fall<br>To the floor my father stained,<br>The new blood streaming from his head. The drift<br>Of autumn fires and a century's cigars, that gun's<br>Magnanimous and brutal smoke, endure.<br>In March the rug was ragged as the past. The thread<br>rots like the lives we fasten on. Now it is August,<br>And the floor is blank, worn smooth,<br>And, for my life, imperishable.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Weldon+Kees">Weldon Kees</a></strong></div>

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