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Introspection Poems
At my doorstep, little elves, pointed ears
in a basket: knee pads, gardening tools,
a green plastic boat from my past,
thumb-sized, and a coat I stole
in earnest from a girl with amber hair.
All of these I kept labeled on my shelf
for the kissing hour, confessions to tilt
heads with details of my kleptomania,
afterhours in the religion room with figurines
of ballerinas and dead musicians,
my best friend's boyfriend on a platter--
silver--hair and old television shows
to keep me awake at night with laughtracks,
Mr. Ed, rows of lilys-of-the-valley, a dinghy,
protection from the elements, tiny people,
the same things over again--in an alter,
a shrine, a buffet, a museum
guide pulls back the curtain and reveals
the snowglobe from Citizen Kane, intact,
complete with animated scenery,
a young lady shivering in a corner.
The maid is dusting Buddy Holly and
Chubby Checker, stopping only to read
the lyrics to "I'm Not Sleeping."
She lines up the remote controls
on the coffee table with garden gnomes
for legs. Then crowbars another crate.
By
echoshindig
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