Hour of the homemaker, cherished Studebaker, horse bones
crushed to glue. Barrels & barrels of cabbage, more than it’s
possible to ever eat. The fabric torn from the seam or better yet
the sun, that’s fine, but we cannot stop the leaving. Reattach the
bells & these training wheels of regret, the junkmen through the
alleys in their pickups barely running. July cometh & nearly to
stay, I’m talking again to squirrels, a spiderless web, anything to
swerve the little gravestones under the surface of each of us.
Kneeled & knelt, a little bacon in her dinner, her final breakfast.