A red fallen flag; a grey house.
The tin door’s open – an invitation.
Seven golden pears, in a single golden row
And twenty-seven pickled feet in a jar.
My father picks them out with a silver fork,
And lays them out on the granite bar.
I followed my mother to where the milk’s sold.
Twenty-four teeth, and two of hers are gold.
Torn colored cloths in a green thorn tree.
And a red tin flag atop a closed tin house.
They say my father looks nothing like me.