Apr, 10, 02.2

Things unfinished
Neither lacquered nor glossed
Like conversations with strangers
With nothing interesting to say about
Their lives and loves,
The sickness and death of only ever husband
And why now alone,
Tales of being hit by lightening in 1954
Holding a pail made of aluminum
Never found in loft or behind bale
And again last month on the ninth
Thrown across the room, alone,
No phone and scolded once the feeling came back

I am a bad social worker,
Her husband is gone,
Her children occasional visitors,
Peeling paint is her most concern
And quilts made of denim pockets
Intended for wedding presents
For critical mass, pop culture
Polka rockers
Bless you, Arletta