Signature Piece

I wander through her rooms
in this little cat piss house,
searching for something over-
looked by the early morning
pickers. There is an odd
assortment of cheap Native
American prints, a few from
unknown artists, others from
flea markets and garage sales.
An Edison Victrola, cylinder
style, has been hacked up
with parts that don’t belong.
The old furniture is labeled
Eastlake, but that’s not true
either. The carpet in the main
room has been removed (cat
piss) so I walk on the glue-smeared
concrete that cracks under
my shoes. A bedroom
in the back of the house is so
over powering that I can’t enter,
blankets, bedspread, pillows
still in place. The cat room
someone says, skipping out
into the hallway, nose-covered,
a bronze lion under an arm.