Poem

Here she is again, old charity, forgotten nearly, cutting back the excess before frost.

I could tell you about her permanents in the kitchen, malodor, her arms against the nickel, that she drove a Lincoln with a blinker that raced like a nervous pulse. Metallic blue with robin’s egg interior, like riding in a habit.

Daily I walk past a scotch plaid lumpen mass that rose once to a man: Give me my compensation.

Give me my compensation. —Susan Barba