Laya Fisher

In the family room, the windows were never opened.
The middle C key on the baby grand was cracked.
The grandfather clock stopped clanging.
Dust clung to the turntable stack.

In the family room, the carpet was dark shag pile.
Underfoot it felt like teddy bear fur.
The mother-of-pearl hutch held crystal goblets
And half-empty bottles of liquor.

In the family room the family never gathered,
Though the five-seater, yellow couch screamed.
They never played the Beatles records or piano.
In the family room, the family
Was nowhere to be seen.