Reflection On a Raw Evening
Her puffy eyes stare past me as I browse
windows of shops closed for the night.
I notice her cheeks, lined and sagging.
My fingers numb, I cup my steaming mug.
Moving past lights, shimmering and loopy, I
brush evergreens stationed like pylons on sidewalks.
Children, pink-cheeked and bundled,
hurry to a chocolate shop, parents tagging along.
A withered moth, flits back and forth
across the dirty window of an old sedan
A stranger to myself.
She nods at me, as I yank my wool coat
around my shoulders. Her gray, wiry hair
blows in the wind. Turning the corner,
I smooth my own.
**
A Glance
I thought I saw you today,
milky eyes, wiry gray brows,
wandering in the vegetable aisle
in a flannel shirt worn a hundred mornings
you paused, confused.
I pushed the cart to the side,
letting the woman shopping for apples pass,
anchored to my spot.
**
The Day After
my mother wakes alone,
wailing in her bed,
his blue flannel night shirt
wrapped around her wrinkled face
I rise because I must,
offering little comfort
he is not here, but everywhere
somehow the day goes
interrupted by
a boat in the yard
a whiff of turpentine from his wood shop
so I fold clothes,
cut fruit for lunch,
decide on the prayers,
I hold my emotions
like a wrench
chin up, I remember
