Collections

The family’s grown by two

More disabled orphan boys,

One from South Korea, one

From a grim institution

Locally synonymous

With madness—You oughta be

In Greystone! runs the kids’ taunt,

Whenever some other kid

Says something ridiculous.

One boy has had polio

And speaks almost no English.

One’s spina bifida locked

Him into that asylum.

Neither had any parents

Before now, but here they are,

Adopted at the moment

The father is going broke,

Since no one’s eager to hire

A designer of custom

Kitchens—cabinetmaker

In a wheelchair, no less—not

With construction contraction

And the energy crisis.

The grandparents pay mortgage

For a few months, while scolding

About all the adoptions,

But in church the only talk

Is of how the Lord Provides.

The mother and father give

Testimony every week.

Collections are held for them.

Another school year begins,

Four kids in, two boys held out

Until they have some small chance

Of passing, at least a grade

Or two behind for their age.

The oldest kid, in sixth grade,

Who was once an only child,

Collects leaves for his scrapbook

From the feral, second-growth

Hardwoods surrounding the house,

Gluing and labeling them.