Sylvia rises, all smiles.
Buckwheat pancakes and sausage
sizzle in the skillet.
Breezing through the living room
to the den,
a baby under each plump arm,
she kisses Ted good morning.
He opens his bloodshot eyes.
His latest still in the Smith-Corona.
She lingers to read ‘For Assia’.
‘It’s good. Very good,
but what do I know, Teddy,’ she teases,
humming her way back to percolating coffee,
a bell jar bright with poppies,
a table already set.
She brings him a steaming cup.
He drinks.
The phone rings.
Poet laureate?
He accepts.
Sylvia is radiant
and returns to the kitchen
to make him a German chocolate cake.
She chants to the children underfoot,
‘One, two, buckle my shoe.
You do not do, you do not do
any more, black shoe … ‘
‘What’s that dear?’
the thought-fox calls.
‘Nothing…nothing at all,’
she laughs
and turns the oven on.