False Front Poem by R.S. Farris

The furniture store has a false front.
Disgruntled, tired of being the shortest
building on the street, it now raises
its green plywood edifice to the clouds,
praying that no one goes round back
to find the naked roof, exposed to
the cold winter rain a full
story lower than advertised.

What a novel thought you had,
to be just like the others?

It's not until they go inside and look for the
stairs that the innocent townspeople
discover the falseness. The furniture store,
hanging its embarrassed ceiling in
shame, sets its goods outside to bask
in the shadow of that indomitable front;
the bell jangles on as the door shuts firmly, hiding
the dismal truth behind a fresh coat of paint.

Let me come inside; I'm tired
of standing in the rain.

I've memorized the face you wear;
I want to see inside. Let me in;
why won't you let me in?