Poetry Porch: Poetry


Story about a Carpet
by Adam H. Tessier

             The carpet is old, a large, quick-spun
thing from a factory in Turkey that we bought
together when we first took this room in
Poughkeepsie years ago. You loved it and I
loved that you loved it and I paid for the rug,
a dizzy and ornate pattern of jasmines and
paisleys in ocher and green. It seemed
contractual, our first agreed-upon purchase of
anything more than toothpaste or groceries.
             Now, the pile worn down, the flowers,
the vines and all the leaves hard and
indistinguishable, we talk about replacing it.
Some Saturdays we go to a wholesaler and flip
up the corners on stacks of area rugs to see
the patterns and the hues. To you, every one
seems gaudy and cheap, synthetic yarns
looped into Rorschachs.
             At some point you give up, shift the
futon and the bookshelves, pull up the rug,
roll it and prop it precariously against the
dumpster outside. For an afternoon it leans
there, the fringe catching in the wind, until
another couple from our building spot it, and
without a word haul it together, the two of
them, into their room, the door shutting
quietly behind them.

Copyright © 2008 by Adam H. Tessier.