The Cellarette

A poem about my liquor cabinet.

The Cellarette

It was already there
when I moved in,
an old farmhouse
in the country.
When you slide a wooden door
it reveals itself, carved
out of the wall,
under the stairs.
I don’t know if I 
found it 
or it
found me.

There are small,
black tiles,
with an iridescent glow,
and a single light,
that shines down
on a copper sink 
that hasn’t been used much,
so it sput…