It’s big, it’s beautiful, it’s old, it’s heavy, it’s made of wood. It’s simple, it’s worn, it’s scarred, but it still shines when the light is upon it. She bought it many years ago from a retired school teacher eight miles away in the next town. In the Thirties, before the Second World War, she and one of her girlfriends walked to that town from our town along the railroad tracks. Great Depression days. Familiar street names like Elizabeth Way and Adelaide. Letters in the drawers. Her grade school valentines.
Sitting At My Mother’s Desk
That pleasant, nagging feeling
that I should have changed by now —
or that I already have,
and will never
Poems, Slightly Used, July 18, 2009
Categories: Poems, Slightly Used