Sixty

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
Still smoldering.