In the Basement of the Goodwill Store
Ted Kooser
In musty light, in the thin brown air
of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath long rows of sharp footfalls
like nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying on glasses, lifting each pair
from the box like a glittering fish
and holding it up to the light
of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of enameled pans as white as skulls
looms in the catacomb shadows,
and old toilets with dry red throats
cough up bouquets of curtain rods.
You've seen him somewhere before.
He's wearing the green leisure suit
you threw out with the garbage,
and the Christmas tie you hated,
and the ventilated wingtip shoes
you found in your father's closet
and wore as a joke. And the glasses
which finally fit him, through which
he looks to see you looking back --
two mirrors which flash and glance--
are those through which one day
you too will look down over the years,
when you have grown old and thin
and no longer particular,
and the things you once thought
you were rid of forever
have taken you back in their arms.
I was just talking with my sister-in-law about poetry this weekend. We commented on how each word in a poem is so crucial, obviously much more so than in fiction or other prose. I talked about how much I loved that process when writing - the often hours-long search for the exact right word - the one that sounded sharp or soft, the one that alluded to a specific feeling without naming the feeling, the one that had the correct number of syllables, the one that told a larger story than just the word itself. The pursuit of the perfect word is what I remember really treasuring about poetry writing.
This poem exhibits that idea so perfectly. Musty, nails in a lid, skulls, catacomb, old, cough. Little nods to age. Then we switch to the second stanza and that language recedes, becoming more reflective. The narrator finds bits of himself, both literally and figuratively, in this man, a look up the road at what was and down the road at what is to come. The mirrored glasses reinforce this perspective, a literal reflection and also a tool for looking, for seeing better, both the past and the future.
As usual, I can't properly describe what I love about this poem and how amazed I am by the poet's expertise. Maybe that's part of what makes it so good. It's nearly impossible for bodies to do some of the things ballerinas do, but it appears graceful and effortless to the observer. This poem seems effortless. I love it.
