Our Things

Will any of our most hallowed possessions
find their way into antique shops,
whose brittle wooden floors,
peppered with termite dust,
creak under weight of the curious?

Will my illuminated orange rocketship
light up some restless boy's eyes
dangling from the ceiling?
Will he hear her engines roar,
her intrepid crew and captain shout
as did I when I built her 
of wood, cardboard, glue?

And what of your handmade lampshade,
ringed with strings of garnet beads,
glowing warm with Autumn decoupage'?
Will psychics, ambling through the aisles,
hear the crinkle of pages turned by its light,
or feel it quiver to the rhythm
of you and I on the couch beside?

Will Saint Francis, one pierced palm
bracing a Bible,
the other upturned, nestling a dove,
still stand with a rosary draped
across his shoulders?
The rosary that Dad fashioned, link by link,
a month after I spoke of priesthood --
will it ever grace a believer's hand?

What of our books?
Will some scientist blow the dust
from volumes thick with quantum physics,
heavy with Einstein's theory of gravity? 
Will some child's nimble, pink fingers
dance across our pages of fairytales,
read to your own children by candlelight?

What of our hearts?
Will they be gone from this world,
or will their rhythms lurk
among the clank of pots and pans we cooked in,
the softness of handmade quilts?

Will anyone hear my rocketship whisper
"I love you"
to your lampshade
in the antique shop at midnight,
with only the light of a full moon
weighing upon the floorboards?

Scott Speck
12/08/2002