The Quiet Woman
The quiet woman cleans the house
that she does not own,
she washes the dishes she did not eat from,
she does not mind.
The quiet woman puts afternoon tea
in her morning coffee cup.
She writes morning letters
to past relatives six feet in the ground.
All through the day, the day!
She sits and stares out of the window
she watches the white automobiles and yellow buses
go down, go down the street, the street.
The mourners bring home gift bags from six months
of resemblance,
and we eat and drink in their memory
as they rest in caskets in marble tombs.
The quiet woman prepares something to eat
as the guests laugh in the next room
she takes the broom and sweeps the kitchen
and holds back some feeling.
She makes the coffee,
muddy and milky
the guests wonder where is the host
and they put their heads down and mourn.
Now in this chilling November month
the furnace turns on for the umpteenth time
and warms an empty house
of nothingness and bad dreams.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2016
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