I start early in the morning sometimes,
this fading of America’s
dreams,
a little tarnishing of everything
bronze,
a rattle of the camel bells
hanging from the door
to the back porch.
This was at your grandma’s house,
this memory of green Formica and chrome,
the table where you ate sliced bananas
and Cheerios
and you loved them
even though you hated
bananas.
I steal memories
and I break up houses so that
women named Pansy can take everything
and sell it.
Oh, what a beautiful morning.
Your music box is gone.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 
I love how the specific details draw me in. Green Formica, a girl named Pansy. It makes me feel, and care about the missing music box.
Thank you! A lot of it is real detail from my grandparents’ house, which was emptied out by a professional estate sale lady named Pansy. I was in high school at the time, so not in the position to take in Formica tables even if I did know how cool they are. And now, of course I’d love to have some of those things. In the finished attic where my brother and I often slept, my grandmother had a little bronze music box that played “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from “Oklahoma!” As I typed this comment, I got a vivid scent memory of that attic and of old metal.