but i knew
of her.
eccentric
in an old fashioned way.
sweet was a word
attached to her, a label
to explain
who she was.
hardly a friend to be found,
though in church
every sunday.
frugal
with her clothes
and things.
nothing ever thrown
away. there was so little
known of her, but
words find a way to get
around
small towns.
there were rumors
some say.
her clocks were famous.
all of them
on time,
a house full of crickets
ticking off the hours.
it smelled of rosewood
and dust.
wet leather.
and when she
died, what was there to say.
few came
to the funeral home where
she lay in a flowered dress
found in her
closet, hiding on a hook
behind it. a whip.
a chain.
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