In our home we have a place we call the den,
A favorite place for all to be when
We have the time, for treasures are there,
From grandma’s brasses to old chinaware.
It’s a place to show visitors when they come,
When waiting to eat or when the meal is done,
All of them love the place, or so they say,
And in there, is where they want to stay.
Memories flood back and as in the den you walk
And everyone asks questions and wants to talk
Of where things came from, to whom they belong,
The same tales are told again and it’s late before long.
I hope they do not look to close at each shelf and see
The dust and the fingerprints as plain as can be,
For it takes a long time to clean and polish the brass,
And wash all the china and shine up shelves of glass.
Yet, if they notice they are too polite or nice to say,
I hope they don’t talk about me when they go away,
But soon they will all sparkle and shine like new,
For Christmas, cleaning’ll be done the house through.
M Ann Margetson © November 15, 2000
2000/991Theden
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