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

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.

One thought on “May Mother be a Celebration

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.