Museum of Childhood
Dad didn't play the ponies

or manic games at night;


Mom was addicted

only to her soaps. Sisters


at war never swore.

Silence was genius


of an era, nothing

personal. Our hidden grief


shadowed the Fifties' sunshine
like Eisenhower's speech


against the military-industrial

complex, like playground


platoons still blowing up Japs.

Thanksgiving comes late


in this museum of childhood,

flower painted at the bottom


of a porcelain teacup:

cracked saucer, no sugar, no milk.