headline poetry

There must have been a house
before the dishes were lost to the green.
My plates and my cups, a fork and a spoon,
these simple dishes I gather to clean.
I wonder why I chose to bring them ‘round
for the childish to scatter and stain.

There must have been a house
that held my all things, that held my own place,
for some long ages or during some race,
on some good firm land, at least an address,
a real part of my world, my time, my space.

There must have been dressers, closets and clocks,
night-stands and boxes of warm coats and socks,
tv’s and screen doors and shelves with fine dust,
stuff under the bed, a drain with some rust.

There must have been dinners, coffee and cake,
a kitchen table, squabbles, love and hate,
adoration, betrayals, promises made.
But a thing long past, I can't recover,
it must have been so unmentionable,
unbeautiful, unrememberable.

There really had to have been such a house,
a refuge where all these dishes were housed:
all these glasses and forks, scattered about
once treasured and handled only with care,
now scattered, forgotten (love is so rare),
dirty with crusted food and dried up drinks.

The dishes became unprecious,
meant nothing
to the hoard of prancing revelers,
finding sorry form only when left as refuse;
the forlorn remnants of shrill speech
giddy glances, boorish guests,
ignorant to the hostess,
that self-sanctified workwhor(s)e of
grace and plenty ...

There must have been a dining room table
where I honed my skills
of hospitality and longing,
that I exercise so well today,
chasing ceramic cups on cafe counters.

I certainly come from such a house;
though I remember nothing,
I carry it with me.