Homeless
Returning from a short break, to the syrup in the vase
and the jaundiced wilted flowers that join the gathered must,
one remarks upon how little things are greatly missed.
For suddenly in comfort's reach are those items which
have laden pockets, been dug for in bags, rued and gnashed,
and replaced. A certain grace attends to unpacking.
Spilling and spreading back into that place called home.
And the first cup of tea - made with water familiar
to the toot of the kettle that through years of training
gets poured on the edge of the boil - is sipped
in promenade, to a checklist of framed pictures,
until colder than milk.
How quickly she transitioned, to clasp the buttons at her neck
and purse her lips, to pull her face to ward away
the sympathetic. She is dressed for all weathers - sensible
in May - when rain is just likely, as the sun to make the hay.
Quite by chance amid the tables outside the neat cafe
she meets the last to know, and their friend,
who knew him. Knew him when his eyelashes were the envy
of the girls, his soft hair they curled, they called him sissy,
fed him sweets and lemonade, and wheeled him in their prams.
That soft gentle man.
The suitcase on wheels, ringed and tagged, with dangling
dockets of aircraft holds, supports her now. When she looks down
she relates the detail, and when she looks up she sees
only the sky. "Do we want to buy her house?" she asks.
No comments:
Post a Comment