Nine years ago, this was Middle Earth,
Replete with kitsch statuary of wizards,
Elves, dwarves, hobbits, and dragons,
But the German couple whose dream it was
Split acrimoniously, the man descending
Into paranoia and legal filings, the woman
Finally forced to sell the business two years
Later. Last I saw her, she smiled tearily
And gently pinched daughter's infant arms
Ringed with baby fat, murmuring "Spaetzle."
For years the place was shuttered, sad sight
On a grey day, a brown box across the street
From an ugly small-town motel. Then, magic
Descended again, in the form of someone
Else's dreams, another German immigrant
As it happened, who salvaged some gilt
And dark wood decor, restored the counter,
And rechristened it as a sandwich shop,
This time replete with kitsch fairy statuary,
Of the butterfly and dragonfly-winged kind,
Pottery nymphs discretely nude or filmily
Robed, lounging in real and pottery flowers.
And daughter, who never knew Middle Earth,
Likes to come here for a pastry, a hidden
Chocolate behind a small porcelain fairy
In the door within the door. The owner's
Exceptionally tall and fair daughter would
Have looked at home in Rivendell and has
No wings. Every dispensation echoes
Lost others. Out on Tolkien's western isles
The elves are still in mourning for the years
Of the wicked rings. Time dreams all things.
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