HAND IN HAND

Your hand in mine is
tiny soft,
barely stretches across my palm.
Your fingers clasp surely,
but never tight.
Secure that my fingers will
squeeze, bite
at the first sight of trouble;
I will stop
the danger the bad
from getting too near;
I will make it safe
for you.

You smile and hum
a little made up tune.
Your step
part skip part run,
to keep up with my strides,
but always with
a bounce a glee.
I watch you with a smile
and sadness.
Know that later,
when you're tucked in bed,
asleep,
I'll hold another hand.
Know that then mine

will be the tiny one.
Know that
that's where
the similarities end.

COLLECTIONS

I have a collection of cats.
black ceramic,
white tea pot,
painted and printed
on paper.
I hate cats.

I have a collection of perfume bottles.
purple and gold from the Orient,
blue moon from Gay Paree,
polished wood from Tibet.
Never been any of those places.

I have a collection of candy dishes.
Granny Polly's cut crystal.
(She died in '69 - old age.)
Grandma Bellemy's amber glass.
('87 - gangrene.)
Aunt Maize's etched crystal.
('74 - spinal cancer.)
Mrs. Cane's pink leaves.
('84 - heart attack.)
I'm not supposed to talk about these.
(But would you please remember
to put a line in your will for me?)

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