by Lawrence Haggquist

History unfolding,
like a dinner napkin on the lap of time,
the world evolving,
beyond the days when Tasmanian tigers prowled their way to extinction,
through dust bowl doldrums when your pendulum stopped swinging for a time
and moved West on wagon wheels with the rest
of all they could salvage.
Relishing the days of youth
when champagne spilled freely from flutes
and your brass belly swung just as freely,
like the gold locket from the bridesmaid’s neck
when she did the Charleston.
They packed you up for a while,
and some even thought you were dead.
like Havisham’s ensemble,
tangled in cobwebs
abeyant near a decaying cake.
You missed out on the Twist.
Didn’t have time for the Gold Rush either.
A relic, defunct, departed…

Until after Grandma died
when they found you in her attic
peeled the dusty blanket from your aged frame
and brought you back to our “chateau” in suburbia
where Mom and Dad wedged you in the corner
next to the CD tower from Walmart.

You stand there like a soldier at attention,
awkward in our living room
chin-tucked
pilasters at your sides
thumbs on pant seams
too tall for everything
tic-tocking your way through
a re-run of Married with Children,
or maybe Three’s Company

while I lick Dorito cheese powder from my fingers
and philosophize from the sofa
how the hypnotic swing of your pendulum
reminds me of the tide
and, somehow, of Matt Arnold
sitting on Dover Beach
or spaghetti sauce on a dinner napkin.