At Franz and
Nina’s House

A poem by Michelle Bitting

February, and their Christmas tree leans,
molting in the corner
until my husband presses its removal,
the fried plumage spotting a brown trail
of needles all the way to the curb.
Trashcans erupt spent boxes of fertility drugs;
an empty room waits for a new tenant
to soak up the excess light.
Across buffed oak, our own small pair
skate in and out of trouble.
A statue of Buddha, cross-legged on the sill,
nest of chocolate coins overflowing
its plump belly, repeatedly gets sacked.
When it’s time, at last, to go outdoors,
a Japanese pond, its rill gone dry,
radiates the slick magnetism of celebrity—
the children feeding it a steady line of rocks
that disappear below the surface’s stale skin.
Our friends, so patient, stand pleasantly by.
I see them hours from now
kneeling at the water’s curved edge,
a pair of arms reaching down
to summon each polished stone
waiting to be fished out, to be held.

Copyright 2006 by Michelle Bitting