Museum Of Childhood

Dad didn’t play the ponies
or manic games at night;

Mom was addicted
only to her soaps. Sisters

at war never swore.
Silence was genius

of an era, nothing
personal. Our hidden grief

shadowed the Fifties’ sunshine
like Eisenhower’s speech

against the military-industrial
complex, like playground

platoons still blowing up Japs.
Thanksgiving comes late

in this museum of childhood,
flower painted at the bottom

of a porcelain teacup:
cracked saucer, no sugar, no milk.