To Another Woman’s Dream
The picture, faded around the edges, hangs
on the bare-wood wall above the table,
the room’s only furniture, except two benches
polished to a bright glow.
Squiggles along one side mark where the page
once lay in The Saturday Evening Post,
this household’s only link to linen napkins
and flower pots on ledges of unblemished windows
looking out to manicured lawns and box bushes
lined in rows.
Over the caption, Home Sweet Home,
bound by picket fence and rose bushes,
perches the white brick promise of rocking chairs
swaying on a long porch, a golden knocker hanging
on a bright-red door.
From sunrise to sunset, through her bread-baking,
feather-plucking, and the dripping of her sweat
on the dirt-packed floor, the picture points her
to something greener, or to the other thing,
the secret we all hide in dirty corners,
that unending thirst for more.
April 16, 2013
(Note: I wrote two poems today because the first time I tried to publish this, there was some sort of glitch, and the only thing that showed up was a picture I had used! My actual poem had disappeared into the computer ether. So, this is my re-write of what I had just done and had totally lost. Now I know how Hemingway felt when his wife lost a suitcase full of his writing! Yeah, I’m a Hemingway—NOT!)