The Old Days...

She waits by a phone that never rings.
But she can remember a school-bell
calling children back in from too much
time playing under a sunny summer day.

Memories. Truth refracted as if seen
through water, told to her sons and daughters.
Some visions have faded (or so it seems);
only the good times haunt her dreams.

She is through with ringing the bell to call
those children back. She is through with
searing the air with her shouts and curses
so that her own children will call her.

She often reflects on her youthful ignorance,
thinking that with years she would have gained respect.

Now she rocks back and forth on a chair that he built
with his own hands. And she can remember
when together they carved out a life that
she thought would stand forever.

Yet no fire can burn forever. Fury and rage
are gone like other passions, heavy with age.

She pushes a number fifteen red through the quilt
while far away he stands next to a dirty window
staring.
He waits by a phone that never rings.

3.4.1997