cordially yours
sitting on her couch
she has forgotten who I am
greets me like a stranger
treats this stranger better
than she ever treated me
I yearn for her glower
that glint of disgust
the biting sneer
refusal to say anything
nice to me at all
methodist makeover
the huge pile of clothes donated to
our church
rummage sale by the war widow her
departed
husband a young man just forty four
his taste
ran fairly medium along with his
size 34 X 32
trousers brown blue tan gray and
black dockers
16 ½ X 34 button down shirts and
knit pullovers
to keep the wives away from the
pile of clothes
my size the rumor emerges these
clothes were
salvaged from a state funeral home taken off
dead men after their viewing
everyone knows
the body is always buried naked all
my size I
won’t try on a single piece of my
new wardrobe
Mommy, come see
yelling, excited, out of breath,
bouncing into the room,
his
polished ebony eyes
dull to chalky slate
as mother says, In a bit.
Never shifting her attention
from the television showing
favorite summer reruns.
Maybe later.
After awhile.
After this.
We’ll see.
Not now.
Carl "Papa"
Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University
Place, WA. He has seven chapbooks and the contest winning poem riding a bus
somewhere in Seattle. MOTTO: Long
Weekends Forever
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