Toys


It's a rough skirt my daughter wears,
a carpet sample bent around her waist,
clothespin earrings. Here you go sir...

she seats me on the swing and serves
a lunch of pea gravel and brown grass
plated on a Frisbee.
Her brother and his friend skate
the hardwood floor, a white socks game
of hockey with yardsticks and a golf ball.
Later he'll pull his sister with a jump rope
tied to his skateboard; her Big Wheel
is missing its big wheel.

In a fairytale bedroom, sequined dolls
twirl unseen, glossy infantry parade
in the dark. As my children sleep,
Barbie and the look-alikes sit armless
and nude. Chewed olive soldiers
never move yet the unheld toys
seem to lie in wait, gripped
by an ardent spirit
that thrives on disrepair.

My daughter fills the purse
her mother emptied
when she left.



Poet Lore, Vol.106, Spring/Summer, 2011