one light on

you ride
by the house where
your mother lived.
it's empty and dark.
her husband
of forty years,
not your father,
is in there under the one
twenty five watt
bulb
counting pills.
sewing a hole
in a sweater.
with a pencil
he adds up what's left
on the back
of an envelope.
how quickly it all goes
despite
how hard one saves
and mends
counts
slices of bread
on fingers,
cold toes.