mrs. barrett

the husband
long gone,
ten years perhaps,
the kids out
and older, now
on their own,
and she at home,
on the side porch,
with a cup
of tea,
some toast,
a book of well
worn poems
in her lap, an
afternoon alone,
a cloudy day,
a dream, a siamese
cat on the table
who waits
patiently for
love, for
the shallow
bowl of cream,
so i see
her as i pass
by, with a fly swatter
in her hand,
and let her be,
no need to stop
and break
the spell, so few
sweet moments
at any stage
of life, like
these.