Two plain gold bands
from two generations of men
one the father, one the son
both now gone.

One band larger, not quite round:
the father, a rough-about immigrant.
One band smaller, a bit shinier:
the son, thin and fine-boned.

What they thought of each other
what they spoke of, one in Polish,
one in unaccented language of the adopted land,
the bands do not say.

They speak only of commitment
to one woman each,
of working long hours to support a family,
of asking for little that was fancy.

Two plain gold bands
thin, not decorated or heavy,
scuffed with the living of life,
not all that is left.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2011

From Thrown Again into the Frazzle Machine