5.14.12.TW

This street is oddly calm,     
every other house                                                    
a woman’s house.
Belle’s forsythia is rampant.
Anna, in the dormered Cape
left her plastic Santa out.
It’s April. He’s fallen on his face,
beside the sleigh.

In the 50’s this street
could fill a school bus.
Children poured up the hill
in rivers, dropped their books
to climb the willows,
roam the forests, until
they filled their backpacks,
vanished into cities.
 
Meanwhile the women learn
the soft language of Mah-Jongg,
south wind, green dragon,
visit Vegas, walk for cancer.
Docents in the family museums,
they dust artifacts, feed tourists,
and slow dance in spare rooms,
square pictures on the walls.
 
 

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