Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

BLUMENSTÜCKE
The parlor frowned with politeness.
An elegant clock, its walnut rubbed
in the proper grain, ticked quietly,
its pendulum restrained from flight
inside a spotless catafalque of glass.
Nothing was out of place: no dust
could mar the banister, lest whitegloved
hands might intimate
the decline of domestic servitude.
The books, unread and neatly
shelved, stood neck to neck
in regiment, a leather-bound school
of aged and unused nuns.
A golden-threaded tapestry
depicted unicorns at play
in some Arcadian grove
of knotted yews and crags.
The service for six, on trays
that refused to oxidize,
held tea, and a modest supply
of perpendicular sweeteners —
the cups just small enough
to weight the curve of a fragile hand
with no excess of gravity:
weak tea, of a kind to excite
no headiness, brimmed orange
at the spout of an heirloom pot.