Over the fireplace, a painting,
A round-faced woman, smiling,
Hands folded in her lap,
Her dress stiff with lace
And her husband on her left,
A fine brown jacket, a bright gray vest.
On the mantel, a misshapen mug
Of blue clay, with no handle,
Baked perpetually half-melting
And a Christmas card three years old
With dancing penguins and old news.
Trinkets, too, gifts of pinecones,
Wooden apples and a pewter Sphinx.
Even the pieces of a broken Easter egg,
Promise you’ll never throw it out!
Solid blue and dancing with stick lions and giraffes.
It’s impossible now to tell which were which,
The heads and bodies, lines all mingled,
Pressed up against each other,
Refusing to be alone.
Here’s another old one – I can’t remember now whether it was in college or graduate school that I wrote it.
