May Mother be a Celebration

“No one reads hardback anymore,” he said,
sunflower glasses perched on a perfect nose.

“Beats knitting,” I replied, his beach bag brimming
with yarn and cheddar cheese crackers.

“Clearing my mother’s space,”
sadness. A splash of mud.
“Just finishing.”

Wine glasses.
A mile of thick threads
crash

at last;
the pull of pavement
buckling pull of lust.

Nail broken on oak headboards,
my satchel by the door.

No one reads hardback anymore.

No. Never.

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