Two Poems by Carol Hamilton

He revised all his life,
like the artist (I heard it was Monet)
who dabbed and re-touched
even on museum walls,
his pieces framed as finished.
We frame lives at the graveside,
freeze them, say whatever words
we can, but we are never quite
done with it. The public words
seem pleased as ...didn’t we say
“punch” ...and why?...they find
themselves sleek and glossy.
But this stutterer, who wanted to say
the same as they, but better,
knelt down almost mute,
sometimes shattered by the taut air
of expectancy. He knew
that something is waiting, desperate,
and that it still needs to be said.

The Dollhouse
                    
Daddy comes home,
          walks about on the roof,
lies down a minute or two on the bed,
          flushes the toilet,
drives off to work,
          then does it all again.

Perhaps he’ll come in by the door
          the next time that he comes.
Perhaps he’ll drive off 
          with a roar.
But he’ll walk on the roof
          and we don’t know why,
but he does it again and again.

There’s a table and chairs,
          and he may sit down,
but there’s no one to bring him his food.
          So he walks on the roof
and he drives off to work,
          and he does it again and again.

Carol Hamilton