Facing the Music
My aunt, who in her mild imagination
was Ginger Rogers lacking an Astaire,
lived to the last a notch above her station,
an exiled queen propped up by Medicare.
A mirrored sideboard’s porcelain swans and swains
(no Meissen, some Limoges, all very late)
amount now to the bulk of her remains:
even en masse, the daintiest estate.
Bring bubble wrap and drive them to the thrift store.