Thursday, April 13, 2017

the front stoop

how hard she scrubbed
those steps,
the marble front
porch
without a rail.
and each mother, or
grandmother
in mourning black,
with apron,
down the narrow street
bent over
with raw hands and
went at it in the cold
sun.
first impressions
meant so much, still do,
but so few
bend to scrub
anymore.

No comments:

Post a Comment