Not Dollhouse Furniture
miniature in steel
perfect heft and weight,
two claws on a rounded head
on the top of a metal stick,
it’s a flea market find.
my grandfather explains,
“It’s not a toy.
This shoemaker’s hammer
was formed to fit in tight spaces.”
seeing a tool with experienced eyes
He walks and scuffs his moccasins
making friends with the ground.
The leather drags,
stretches thin like soft skin.
I notice his shuffle
because it’s mine.
My son scolds, “You’ll trip.
Pick up your feet, mom.”
We’re at an age
where shrink, sink and sag
describe the bend of our bodies
in a dance toward dirt.
I revisited where I used to live.
My first house shrunk,
the village contracted,
a posada at navidad in an egg.
At my grandparent’s after college,
the huge dining room table miniaturized.
How could three families sit around that?
As a teen I saw the movie, Dr. Zhivago
but the bastard child interview eluded me.
When I saw the same movie as an adult,
I cried for the love child I missed.
Time treads slowly for children,
quickens with age.
Memory passes through a funnel-
youth pours in the open end,
the bottle fills with age.
Inconstant time moves at an errant pace.
Memories season like melting ice cubes.
Date Published: August 1, 2019