There is a silent affinity between the collective reserve of all the
Lonely housewives of the earth
And the dismal trinkets they fill their hours with
A small candleholder above the mantel,
A glass apple near the oven
Once the fabric of their day goes unnoticed, they themselves become just
Shadows in an ornate mirror
Accumulating dust
As the small hands of a minuscule face
Some ceramic animal
Ticks the minutes of an uneventful supper away
And when darkness arrives
And the primitive day is done
The facade of a small cherub hung above the silent bedroom
Will survey its kingdom in a sad desolate state
Unable to cry stone tears of frustration
As its family sleeps in the wake of its birth