her house,
the color of parsley
paint
on my hands
and face
she hands me a cupcake.
apple
and cinnamon,
a few
crumbled pieces
of walnut.
she writes
the check, but i can
tell she wants
to talk,
she doesn't want me to leave.
her husband died 10 years
ago.
i see his car
in the garage, his mower,
his rake
his gloves on a hook.
his boots are on the steps.
she tells me,
as i carry out my ladder,
that he
loved to bake bread.
me too, i tell her,
and then everything that
there was
to say,
has been said.
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