Friday, November 18, 2011

Not Quite Drosselmeyer

[in memory of my father, Robert R. Douglas, newspaperman]

his shadows are slightly sugared, largely,

ink-stained;
brushed cinammon, his eyebrows; he doesn't say a lot and
seems to be surprised at your surprise

at long pauses in the conversation.

all his waxen dolls
could live alone

happy for years with a good vocabulary

and no one left
to tie

a pink sash or mend

blueberry leotards.
his very name can never mean:
prisms shaken in chandeliered dreams; he

likes the railroad tracks, too much candy

rich desserts and understated jokes but
he prefers sliced sentences with

corned beef hash, boxes of saltines, no gift-wrap, please-

and a printing press, any kind at all.

in the corners of his eyes, a certain doggedness

and I dream, a dollhouse in a
tiny country space
where leaves are really falling

very small

perhaps, next year
a snow-globe bigger than you are:

when the snow flies

the king shifts out like clockwork
on the icy porch and strangely,

errandless, not believing his good luck

whistles that "Bye Bye Blackbird" tune
admiring the dreamsickle stars twinkling to Glen Miller

and a Very Old Newspaper* rubber-banded,

red or green,
in eternal Christmas snows...
                 --30--

mary angela douglas 18 november 2011





*The Arkansas Gazette, of blessed memory, the oldest newspaper West 
of the Mississippi...