she sits in silence beneath chandelier
acclaim, counting on odds and ends
to see her through endless days and
short blurbs of slumber.
again and again she thumbs through
her ups and downs, an exercise in futility,
disseminated across wall photos, uncle
Jack staring back with smoke-stained
grin and yellowing eyes.
her grand canyon excursion with Sol,
her Jewish affair ending in a diatribe
of false clichés, bitter rivals, and
group gatherings misted over by
time ravaged memory, who was the
kid in scruffy coveralls and devious
eye, the Wilmington Farm, where
she was raised and goaded upon.
the kettle faint but noticeable, she grips
the arms of her dining chair, hoisting
her independence, she adjusts her shawl
according to her upbringing……….