The fur of the carpet shines, the flowers
perky and bright, no books out of place,
immaculate in face. For Browning, Elliot, Emily,
and Milton stand in crisp dinner jackets, waiting
to be swept down.
Oh! To have someone dear stomp them
to the floor while wearing a frown. For their
pages of ink to kiss the cushioned ground,
in rage, in glee, in careless beauty of
I long for such a day, when order is gone
and exuberant mayhem ensues. No.
Life is orderly, it must be. Breakfast at
5:00, dinner at 6:00, we go by the clock,
such a blessed gift.
Children never to be seen, the neighbors
have enough, for you, and me. We will
be envied, wait and see. Yet how they
are heard, each breath, a single footstep,
they wander inside my head.
Those children, the blessed lost boys, and
girls, who'll never be found. They whisper
of the futility of a dream that's never to be.
Still, I look with regret toward each child
I never had.