says my husband as he passes by.
I pick up the 8½ x11 sheet of paper
which is blank, realize the poem
is on the floor planks shimmering
burgundy under the light.
The slightly worn center of the hallway
has a history, a tiny splinter,
by the toe kick sun rays have lightened
its hard wood grain, one can see tree rings,
imagine its life at Mount Olympus,
watch Aphrodite lean on it standing
vigilant to protect her from Hermes
plans to trade sandals for favors.
My grandfather built it and danced
for years practicing Flamenco steps,
grandma walked from kitchen to bedroom
to tend their only daughter, my mother,
to a patio and garden where artichokes’
silky filaments bloomed iris purple.
She opened drapes to allow the morning in
the smell of coffee out, thru window screens.
My mother liked mechanical trains
the ones wound up with a key,
a damaged collection I inherited,
sat on a bench with a pillow by the bay window
to read her books, until my father courted her;
both lounged on a sofa, feet on the floor,
which have been sanded, stained
and polished so many times.
Still looks good. My husband and I
live in that house now which has so many
memories, mostly belonging to others,
lying on the floor like a poem.
