IRENE
The farmhouse was never full of children or family clamoring
For her, her sweet rolls, snicker doodles, and gravy-covered roasts
Except at holidays
Everyone moved away.
Dinner is served for one.
She eats slowly, her false teeth hurt.
It is hard to savor a microwave meal.
Arthritis catches her on the stairs, in the yard
raking papery, toast colored leaves of Autumn,
in her fingers dialing the telephone.
Her breath comes in snatches over the line
Can you see her, hunched on a stool,
tissue scrunched in hand, waiting to wipe tears and
wrapped in an old brown sweater buttoned to the chin?
She sits by the plate glass window
rocking slowly
and follows the work in the fields through the season
Evenings,
she watches Billy Graham falls asleep sometimes dreams
of yesteryears which are more clear
than yesterday
when the farmhouse was full
But only on holidays.
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