some mornings i forgetwith the metal of wheelbarrowleaning cool into the curlof fingers damp with mash,the grind of grit in axlea constant to the step gravel crunchof road underfootbuckets shufflingamong the slices of hay and the stamp and breath of horseswaiting down the end of the road,old now with sharp flanksand gentle eyes, and it…
sometimes i went with my mother to work night duty at the old-age home in town trailing quiet shadow behind her on the evening round out to the rooms and through frail care. there was a woman there i don’t know her name, they were all mr and mrs somebody to a seven year…