Ostensorium

Two objects on the floor,
One sock caught on a ledge that only a photograph could do justice,
And a hat, to its right, under a chair, both curled up, used,
And discarded in the process of living.

A shoe,
This morning parked just on the threshold between the bedroom and the thoroughfare for all other rooms, in this tiny flat, that we share in chaos and silence.

Within that red and gold, paint splattered, tattered remnant, exists some mute resonance of its owner, her truth embodied, and secret forever.