Bric-a-Brac
1 Minute Read Time
“The trouble with you, Robert, is that you write about—subjects.”
“The trouble with you, Wallace, is that you write about—bric-a-brac.”
—Meeting between Frost and Stevens
After the storm,
when the green clouds leave,
retreating over mounds
of shard-filled rubble,
the desperate climb those hills
looking for . . . what?
Irreplaceable nothings:
a yearbook with its falling-out bits
of ribbon and lace;
bent and now-warped Polaroids
with red eyes;
and a wedding album
they must find a place for,
to spread out and dry.
And medals and letters.
Any other time, big-ticket items—
a good position, solid investments—
would give comfort,
but this morning, to the still-
shaken, moaning scavengers
on the heaps of their lives,
the discovery of a purple glass
peacock, miraculously unbroken,
speaks to them and weighs more
than the missing bathroom scale
could ever say.
Read more from Issue 19.1.
