the new client

her wallpaper
was dated.
a colonial mural
of horses
pulling a wagon,
men in wigs
with scrolls
in their large
hands.
a wing chair
that emily
dickinson could
spend a day
in was pushed
near a window,
next to a fragile
table
that wobbled
under the weight
of paper.
she had a birdcage
in the corner
with a yellow
canary, who
seemed bored
too, looking
the other way
when your finger
touched
the bars.
the drapes
were too heavy
and dark
for the room.
it smelled of dust
and mold.
perhaps something
she had cooked
a year or so
ago. some sort
of broth, or stew.
sit, she said.
let me get us
some tea.