A tangle of outdated
newspapers, heir-
looms in cushion-cracks, letters
addressed to a "Valued
Customer" glanced
like a widow's silhouette
through cellophane
windows-- my grandmother's love
seat, a relic,
though purchased just years ago
after the death
of her second husband, was green.
Now, the color
hardly matters. She often
asks for help cleaning but
never takes it. Too busy
thinking at her
kitchen table. The pattern
is difficult
to even recall: flowers,
probably, red
against the green. The armrest,
somewhere under
all those papers, is fraying,
or at least feels
to all of us watching
like something that should be.
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