Her black hair bounces <br />as she dances through discarded papers, <br />kicking the Metro section into the corner <br />where she houses a baby doll with bright clear eyes. <br />She was once such a baby <br />housed in a faraway house, <br />before us. <br /> <br />Her doll's hair bounces, too, <br />when our child walks her, <br />step by step, <br />a marionette without strings attached, <br />each foot in turn <br />awkwardly carrying the weight of the child's body, too, <br />pressing into the soft red carpet, <br /> <br />soft color and soft texture, <br />a cushion for both doll and child, <br />as they waver across the room, <br />rebalance their steps and then plop down. <br />'O, wow! she walks fast, Daddy. <br />Look out. Here she comes! ' <br />I look at them and laugh <br /> <br />because I'm expected to. <br />There are strings attached now, <br />binding me and doll and daughter. <br />And I notice tiny lines <br />crease the carpet, bent fibers looking white, <br />where she dragged herself and doll <br />along the only available road toward family.<br /><br />Daniel Brick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-home-sunday-afternoon/
