Breezing through the living room
to the den,

a baby under each plump arm,

she kisses Ted good morning.
He opens his bloodshot eyes.
His latest still in the Smith-Corona.

She lingers to read 'For Assia'.
'It's good. Very good,

but what do I know Teddy,' she teases,

humming her way back to percolating coffee,
a bell jar bright with poppies,
a table already set.

She brings him a steaming cup.
He drinks.

The phone rings.

Poet laureate?
He accepts.
Sylvia is radiant

and returns to the kitchen
to make him a German chocolate cake.

She chants to the children underfoot,

'One, two, buckle my shoe.
You do not do, you do not do
any more, black shoe...'

'What's that dear?'
the thought-fox calls.

'Nothing...nothing at all,'

she laughs
and turns the oven on.

Laura Treacy Bentley lives in West Virginia. Her poetry has been published in a number of American and Irish journals. She participated in The Stinging Fly reading at the Irish Writersí Centre in June 2000.