The closet rests in a dream of cedar, of clothes
waiting to walk through rooms of blinding sunlight
of which the closet has heard vague rumors.
Although the closet owns a dozen pairs of shoes or more,
like a small child it cannot tie one shoelace,
like a child it longs to run away to sea and change its name.
Wishing to be left alone with its sweaters and golf clubs,
the closet, affectedly signing itself “Clothespress,” knows
it has no life of its own, is loved only for its possessions.
In a camphor dialog with darkness, the closet masquerades as the space
beneath the bed, the cupboard in which the dead child’s toys are kept,
knowing itself neither a symbol nor a metaphor.
II
The closet imagines it has sold its memoirs to Hollywood.
Dennis Hopper will star in a David Lynch film
based on the closet’s addiction to soiled linen.
Fancying itself a rising star, wishing to be called Cubby,
the closet demands a new wardrobe, better lighting,
covering its walls with pin-ups of guest rooms of the rich and famous.
Dreams of success lie piled to the closet’s ceiling.
It posts new rules: storage of paint thinner and insecticides prohibited!
No clandestine sex during parties! No walking in unannounced!
Every week cheap tabloids will lie about the closet’s contents,
gossip columnists ask “what will the closet hold next?”
The closet will install a pool, be seen in all the right homes.
III
Such adolescent dreams the closet once entertained:
of padded, scented hangers, ample, well-ordered shelves,
tidy rows of pastel frocks with labels reading “Dry Clean Only.”
Meanwhile, the closet has been forced to take a second job.
Working weekends and evenings as a longshoreman,
the closet begins making off-color remarks about armoires.
The closet feels unfulfilled, seeks excitement in danger,
suggests itself as the perfect place to stash pharmaceuticals.
Here, it whispers, behind the quilts, underneath the mukluks.
Having lost its morals, its sense of right and wrong, the closet
now packs a rod, obscene underwear from mail-order catalogs.
Guests turn away embarrassed from life-size dolls behind the tennis dresses.
The closet cannot sleep, it’s so upset. No one
looks any more for his old mitt or her old muff.
No one cares any longer about the secret life of storage space.
The closet feigns indifference—its comforting darkness
becomes a refuge in which it fumes and fusses, grumbling
about moths and other things over which it has no control.
Why is there so much dust? the closet queries. How long must I entertain
wet umbrellas, boorish boots? Have I lost my youthful vim?
The closet fears it has become a metaphor.
This fear proves stifling. The closet may as well be nailed shut,
a locker for bafflement, a cabinet for silence and stale air.
The closet wishes it had never been built.