They stole my mother’s silver,
Melted it down, perhaps,
Into pure mineral, worth
Only it own weight.

We must eat with our hands now,
Grab for food
In this new place of greed
Our table set
Only with memories tarnishing
Even as we speak:
Serving the broth
To children who will forget
To polish her silver, forget even
To lock the house.

Where forks and spoons are divided
From all purpose,
Patterns are lost like friezes
After centuries of rain,
And every knife is robbed
Of its cutting edge.

“Burglary” ~ Linda Pastan