Fragments

A white table from the trash courtyard,
lugged upstairs in a rainstorm,
sits and stares at me with its Ikea trappings,
flanked by two red folding chairs
boasting hand-painted flowers,
found tucked inside an East Village thrift store.

A bookshelf poses as faux Victorian
as its comrade in arms from Nadeau furniture
pretends to be from the Caribbean,
straw drawers begging for airy shirts but
sadly filled with sweaters.

Two kitties,
one from 150th street
rescued from an apartment
housing 17 other cats,
labeled as aggressive
for wanting to play with the shy ones,
the other with weepy eyes
gushing ooze, fevered,
purring in the palm of my hand
as the ass asks for $100.
These two are mine.

A tiny family dwells in
a studio apartment
about as small as you might imagine,
filled with pieces, each with a history
I can never really know.

I find myself in fragments,
collecting parts to fashion
a story that feels familiar.