The jackknife you filched
with etchings of boxing gloves on it
reminded me of the metal fruit
in the center of the table at Canaries Street,
for both were perfectly round
and gave off an inaudible hum
like that of a remote dishwasher.
When Susan came bounding down the stairs
with her arms full of teen magazines
and hollered something to Rudy
about your new jackknife,
I came in from the field where
I had been sitting in a lather
about my cracked telescope case.
I said, Rudy's not in earshot, sister,
he ran out for decorative pomegranates;
the Lipscombs are coming tonight
and we want the place fresh and ready.
And I saw you skinning yams
over a mixing bowl in the kitchen.
Not with your inexplicably spherical penknife,
but with a small, tangled fork
of only two tines, in our factorylike
residence on Canaries Street.