Legs in white crocheted lace floral tights

and bare in navy Eton shorts and knee high socks

dangle through wrought iron belly curve balusters, swing

back and forth, toddler feet squeezed in black patent gloss Mary Janes,

saddle shoes trimmed with brogue

high above parquet floor

splashed with color from light through lead

crystal panes

set in heavy oaken door,

his children on the balcony,

alone in the lobby of a memorial parlor

where the corpse of their father is now on display,

small hands around ribbon twists, flare of mesh baskets

shuttle mechanical,

up and down,

the last thought he had

the most damning thought

of all—how

a misunderstanding

stipples and crosshatches

the person before you

into someone else until

the next thing you know.