Anne Frank leans from a window to watch
the elegant newlyweds finally appear
on the blonde granite steps of their home—
the groom in a black top-hat and frock coat
with a white carnation boutonnière,
gripping long dark gloves in one hand—
bride in a bright-brimmed hat, smart fitted suit,
black clutch between right arm and jacket,
several dozen soft pink roses spilling
from her white satin glove, whose mate
nestles contented in the spacious crook
of the tall gent’s debonairly flexed arm.

Anne watches them unlink and gaily wave,
then the driver slips the new wife and husband
into one and then the other door
of their sleek black Packard touring car,
waves himself, and hops behind the wheel.

Fat black luggage-boxes on its roof,
horn tooting, it careens out on the avenue,
swerves right around the square and vanishes,
never to return—Anne’s seen to that.

 

 


 

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Photo:  Anne and Margo Frank, family photos,  Anne Frank House, Amsterdam


 

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Tom Riordan lives in New Jersey. He’s a retired restaurant worker and teacher, and dreams about becoming pope for his next career.

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