And here's Baby's Cradle

Here's mama's knives and forks,
    each methodically rubbed, rinsed and dried,
    King Edward silver and still pretty,
    although damaged,
    fork tongs bent from unknotting shoe laces,
    butter knives twisted from turning screws.
Here's daddy's table,
    solid oak, kid's chewing gum stuck underneath,
    decades of scratches and dents on top
    that polish out darker than the rest,
Here's sister's looking glass,
    but there never was a sister,
    and it took years to understand
    it was a mirror, not a magnifying glass,
    and why so pointed,
    that mirror about to fall from daddy's table?
    Pull the fingers down to make it round or square,
    but it's on the dresser now, anyway,
    behind cheap jewelry boxes,
    a forest of cosmetics, powder puffs,
    pictures of family feathering the edges,
and here's baby's cradle...
    rocking, rocking, rocking, rocking.
    That's absurd: There wasn't a baby, either.
    "What in the world are you thinking?" she asked.
    He dropped his hands on his lap, looked up slowly,
    "I want a divorce," he replied.



(Ketzer, 12/87)