Furnish

We found a coffeetable
at a thrift store, joyful 
that it was heavy, of solid
wood. Only a few 
nicks here and there.
A hutch 
came later—we marveled
at the way plain glassware
twinkled when a tiny light
was activated.
The rooms filled
with pictures,
gifts of books and 
ancient bows and arrows;
a staff carved from hard-
wood and smoked 
in fire on a Tibetan
mountain. 
Though now we need to,
I still can hardly give 
away the surpluses—
every drawer crammed
with dreams 
of habitation.
Those years ago,
I remember 
when we carried
a long, boxed mirror
between us up
the apartment steps.
It was Halloween; 
people handed out sweets
from their porches and
joked about how maybe
we might have packed
a body in there.