The broom lies against the chair
Standing upright, slender with a short straw skirt
Waiting as if there would be a dance
And though there was music
No one swept her off of her feet last night.
It is said that he was a mother’s day present
Arriving a day early
And now sixty on this damp morning after
He lingers and reviews.
It is a sweet emptiness
when friends come and
Celebrate and then depart
Leaving their detritus of empty bottles
And failing balloons.
It rained on the party, not a sad thing here
But we have been lulled into a dry spell
And so somewhat surprised it came and
Now quenched all with a heavy shower
That made pink frosting slump
And strangers stand close together.
If they had lingered
They too would be poking at the morning after coals
Of the fire