Winter 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1997 |

My Wife Asks Me Why I Keep Photographs in a Drawer

Beneath T-shirts and underwear, A few almost-sepia photographs Of my mother and father—before they knew me. My mother stands in front of the school Where she first taught fourth grade. She's young and lovely and smiling In a summer dress. Her shoulders are bare, Her eyes alight with candid feeling. The year before, she'd worked in A department store where she'd read Tolstoy During her breaks. One day she came back To her counter red-eyed; her supervisor inquired About her. "Anna died," my mother blurted. My father sits at a table. He holds some cards And smiles. All the other guys at the table Are soldiers too and they smile. They're going To live through the war. It's aces and swell Broads and highballs and homeruns for them. I should set up some sort of shrine for these Bouquets of time, something more visible. They Lie there in my drawer as I stutter through My slice of time—from semi-hippiedom To that middle-age wariness That signals a flagging of m

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The Great Depression

By Baron Wormser

Beneath T-shirts and underwear, A few almost-sepia photographs Of my mother and father—before they knew me. My mother stands in front of the school Where she first taught fourth grade. […]

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