The Things by Donald Hall

 

When I walk in my house I see pictures,

bought long ago, framed and hanging

— de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore —

that I've cherished and stared at for years,

yet my eyes keep returning to the masters

of the trivial — a white stone perfectly round,

tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,

a broken great-grandmother's rocker,

a dead dog's toy — valueless, unforgettable

detritus that my children will throw away

as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips

with my dead father. Kodaks of kittens,

and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.

- - - Donald Hall