Five Vintage Fisher Price Sets
Poetry by Catherine Owen
with closing lines from Gwendolyn McEwen, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, WB Yeats, and Muriel Ruykeser.
The Garage, 1970
Stranger melanges exist, hippogriffs of industriousness
But this: car park and automotive shop in one, with no
Attendant to be seen, just a gas pump and a lift you can crank
Your little car on or perhaps ride, as Steve did, up & down
The gridded elevator singing its ping ping ping into the night.
All the vehicles are convertible, the seats stamped holes,
And into each one they fit: Jennifer, Kevin, Josie (not even
Adult enough to drive) and Mother Susan of course, taking
Turns to spin in circles on the inexplicable machine, to park
On primary wedges of pie or to whoosh, perhaps, down the long
Ramp into nowhere and back, a slide that never grows old, O
There is something down there and you want it told.
The Farm, 1967
The fence has gaps and is scarcely big enough to keep
Two blind cows from flight, one muddy sheep, maybe the old
Brown nag who noses over the posts on spindly legs, or the pig,
A pert black fold of limbs and snouting at the trough.
There are other cows inside, of course, relishing the painted hay
Upon the wall and a chicken or two in the loft’s flat chaff.
The rooster, however, trots where it wills, on the plastic roof,
About the always-empty silo, cock-a-doodle-dooing in a tiny
Childish voice. No women on this homestead, only two or three farmers, Equivalent in yellow hats, red bandanas, solid blue bodies plopped
In shiny new tractors that draw nothing, hold nothing, just zip
Around the barnyard, beep beep beep, their dreams, you know, are small:
Hard work, a meal and just some human sleep.
The Camper Van, 1972
Just as at home, so much is going on: incompatibly, excessive.
There is a small table laden with silent meats, many options for chairs,
A ladder that can lead you to the loft and its hard foam beds or, unawares,
You can scare Daddy on the toilet, the bathroom so random, incongruous
Between the wheel wells. The camper tilts; a boat slides off, wide enough
For four: Billy, Jane, Joe and Spot the Dog, also smiling. Mother Susan
Is having a scoot, her fast ride zooms about the trees. Maybe later,
Ghosts around the plastic fire or songs like Up Around the Bend.
Buck wants to play the martyr game but night drops fast upon the scene
And finished knowing then.
The Circus Train, 1973
The trio of people here: engineer, ringmaster and a clown,
His wooden body topped by a plastic hat, crimped ala Jughead,
A red & yellow hilarity in the hot sun that suspends the train in time:
One car fronted by an engine, backed by a caboose and chock-full
Of animals. What circus boasts a giraffe? Possibly an escapee from the zoo,
The lion too, trapped in his molded mane and minus a roar, but surely
The monkey belongs here with its onanistic tricks, the bear, trotting
On hind legs and that majestic blue elephant, whose stiff trunk
Can lift an inch, but can she roll her body on a ball, can they all
Parade through hoops, can they pyramid on carts? Now the master
Snaps his whip from the foul rag & bone shop of the heart.
The Schoolhouse, 1974
Fold me open and find inside O so many letters,
Numbers too, pictures of an apple, a ball, a cat, the simple
Signifiers of living in the world. Perhaps there was a map
But it’s been lost, the seats are skew-wiff, and, at the front,
In the yellow desk of empire, a teacher presides over four small
Students. Beyond, there’s a bus that never departs.
Between, a tiny playground: slide, swings, a slow merry-go-round.
Is Madame trying to impart the knowledge of the time?
The children smile & smile. No idea, they claim.
Again and again, the lesson keeps repeating, delivered
By a face now desperate to be heard,
the bright vein on her temple, pitifully bleating.