When I looked and saw the postman coming

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.