by Eileen Brener
Sunday morning, feeling doleful, I drift
into a neighborhood rummage sale. There,
in front of the rooster-shaped teapot
with its four fat hen cups, salt and pepper
shakers lean and kiss, miscegenate.
The breadbox doesn’t care; it’s cozying
up to ceramic canisters. Meanwhile
a two-story dollhouse boasts blue plastic
chairs, quilted beds, open doors, perfect
maintenance: nothing mars this happy
home. . .
It breaks my heart.
Eileen Brener has enjoyed studying writing–poetry and prose–at the IRP.