I thrust myself down
stairs to find you.
Always older, your whited
hair tumbles over
your eyes. Your house
dress under
your apron billows
in the draft. Outside
a train whistles
as it crosses Pierce Ave.
During all this, I find
you are fetching
canned tomatoes, or zucchini, or French green beans
for him.

03/30/2009

Posted on 03/30/2009
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