Her black hair bounces
as she dances through discarded papers,
kicking the Metro section into the corner
where she houses a baby doll with bright clear eyes.
She was once such a baby
housed in a faraway house,
before us.
Her doll's hair bounces, too,
when our child walks her,
step by step,
a marionette without strings attached,
each foot in turn
awkwardly carrying the weight of the child's body, too,
pressing into the soft red carpet,
soft color and soft texture,
a cushion for both doll and child,
as they waver across the room,
rebalance their steps and then plop down.
'O, wow! she walks fast, Daddy.
Look out. Here she comes! '
I look at them and laugh
because I'm expected to.
There are strings attached now,
binding me and doll and daughter.
And I notice tiny lines
crease the carpet, bent fibers looking white,
where she dragged herself and doll
along the only available road toward family.
Daniel Brick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-home-sunday-afternoon/
