I've cribbed Wolfe, you stickler

A place for everything was kept
in cold corners of the day
where the breeze walks softly
on skinny worn leather pads
and no dust is there.

Had speech been made
voices would bounce
aghast from plaster
wall to wood
floor freely.

Had things filled space
with hulking shoulders
or skinny waist
a breath you could not take
between their shadows.

But fertile ground it is
waiting perfect for the stuff
of a life too short.