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In the Dream House


ISSUE:  Summer 1985
My father, having changed
From his comfortable well-worn
Once-in-a-lifetime tweeds,
Which he never owned, wears now
As the man of the dream house
A flower in his silk lapel
And stands poised by my mother
Who is radiantly younger
In the dress he never bought her
And kisses her longingly

And lingeringly, not fearful
Of heaven or the neighbors,
As if he’d loved her before
The taxi, the orchestra,
The champagne, and the private laughter,
Which they never called or heard
Or opened or uttered,
And they’re holding each other
Not with self-contained arms
But with one accord, one impulse
Of uncontrollable joy
Over what could be their lives,
And there in his firelit den
He looks at her and smiles
Out of pride with open eyes,
Which he no longer has.

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