the bus to Tuscany

my mother

when she came into money.

five dollars

here,

ten dollars there,

would hide it

in a book, or in a plant

pot.

sometimes she'd

bury a twenty

dollar bill

in the yard, marked

with a stone.

there was a change

jar

in her sewing room.

she was getting ready

to leave,

to escape the misery

she was in,

but she died before she

made her getaway,

Tuscany

remained a dream