The Rood

I remember the old coat rack
tucked in the corner and still.
dark and dull, his branches hide
those arms that held the coats
through summer and spring –
those crooked things.

his wood that dug into shag carpet
as an oak whose roots would dig
and acquaint the sullen earth
with worms who’d climb the rood
to settle into pockets and belong
till some poor bloke should come along.

who leaves his twisted arms,
once again bare and waving?
who plucks the leaves from trees
and blows them far to Rome?
I remember the old coat rack
screaming and begging,
‘when will my master come home?’
‘when will my master come home?’