8:00 p.m. Still light out. I hear them
playing, their shouting and laughter.
Not me though, sent to bed on schedule,
(and not even tired!) sighing and twisting
in cotton sheets Mom dried on the line.
Lawn mower blades churn—Mr. Harrison, next door?
There’s Kelly McGrotha two doors down,
tossing a baseball with his big brother.
Is that Ann Swenson bouncing her
red rubber kickball against their garage door?
Miss Lillian Matson is yelling for her Pekinese,
Yen-Tu, to come in for the night.
And me, alone and apart, stuck inside
this solid safe trap of a house.
playing, their shouting and laughter.
Not me though, sent to bed on schedule,
(and not even tired!) sighing and twisting
in cotton sheets Mom dried on the line.
Lawn mower blades churn—Mr. Harrison, next door?
There’s Kelly McGrotha two doors down,
tossing a baseball with his big brother.
Is that Ann Swenson bouncing her
red rubber kickball against their garage door?
Miss Lillian Matson is yelling for her Pekinese,
Yen-Tu, to come in for the night.
And me, alone and apart, stuck inside
this solid safe trap of a house.
By Terry Martin
1 comment:
Terry Martin is an English Professor at Central Washington University. Her second book of poems, The Secret Language of Women, was published by Blue Begonia Press in 2006. She lives in Yakima, Washington--The Fruit Bowl of the Nation. “Poetry—both reading it and writing it—reminds me to slow down, to breathe, to be here, now. And I need reminding.”
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