by Ted Kooser In the musty light, in the thin brown airof damp carpet, doll heads and rust,beneath long rows of sharp footfallslike nails in a lid, an old man standstrying on glasses, lifting each pairfrom the box like a glittering fishand holding it up to the lightof a dirty bulb. Near him, a heapof enameled pans as white as skullslooms in the catacomb shadows,and old toilets with dry red throatscough up bouquets of curtain rods. You’ve seen him somewhere before.He’s wearing the green leisure suityou threw out with the garbage,and the Christmas tie you hated,and the ventilated wingtip shoesyou found in your father’s closetand wore as a joke. And…