A Poem for Saturday

The Baby’s Shop

Like sleeping ghosts in an attic,
every inch holds a hanger
with t-shirts, little under slips,
eyelet dresses,
a tiny ruffled bonnet
all the same size, and all 
sheer, transparent.
In the center of the store is a lace shawl,
the kind used as a collar
for important occasions.
If you look closely, you can still see the outline
of a woman’s neck,
the thin line across the throat,
and the unworn christening dress on her arm.