After the Mark

The label says umbrella, owner unknown—lately the rain
still darkens the map folded under it.
A red shoe waits heel-first on the shelf—only dust
has learnt the direction of its pointing.
The watch stopped at four—outside the glass
the late afternoon keeps going.
No one has claimed the key—keep it near
the door, the attendant says, though no lock is listed.
A coat hangs empty—careful, its lining
has held a pressed flower flat for years.
The ticket’s date has faded—leave the lamp
above it; the ink returns when it is warm.
A photograph lists no names—on the silver edge
a thumbprint catches what the faces miss.
The vase is catalogued cracked—someone
glued the handle, left the hairline seam.
A child’s drawing is filed as weather—even the sun
is crossed out; no rain is forecast.
The drawer will not close—read the label again:
Lost: one room.