Everything has been taken that anyone <br />thought worth taking. The stairs are tilted, <br />scattered with sycamore leaves curled <br />like ammonites in inland rock. <br />Wood shows through the paint on the frame <br />and the door is open--an empty room, <br />sunlight on the floor. All that is left <br />on the porch is the hollow cylinder <br />of an Albert's Quick Oats cardboard box <br />and a sewing machine. Its extraterrestrial <br />head is bowed, its scrolled neck <br />glistens. I was born, that day, near there, <br />in wartime, of ignorant people.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/japanese-american-farmhouse-california-1942/
