©2013 Susan Noyes Anderson
A Door in Charleston
It was Charleston in the fall,
no other bodies there to bend
the energy, just you and me (us…we),
begetting child-free memories to own.
The hotel reeked of history
and old rugs, water weeping from
the walls, halls filigreed in shades
of ochre, overlaid with stains of brown.
Our bed, four-postered, coverlet of lace,
commode beside, was dignified
by carved vitrine; replete with nicks, knickknacks,
dust tracks and violets––the velvet ones, with tales to tell.
It drew us into sweetness, thick
as warm molasses corked in clay
jugs, fading red to pink, the stink of slave
market graced now by art and flowers.
We walked for hours.