poetry by E. LOUISE BEACH
Green and blue today. The clouds are white.
Birds visit the feeder like non-descript tourists:
here and there, high and low, quick palaver.
Mother dresses herself, T-shirt inside-out.
Although we’re but two, I’ve made coffee for six.
The stray cat reclines on the wicker as if she belongs.
Rory takes gravy mixed in with his vittles.
Ceiling fans push the dull air along.
We pretend it’s not endless summer.
The TV begins to bluster.
From Boston, one thousand miles away:
“It is what it is,” says my daughter.