of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays"
Every morning she still wakes
before the sun, before the hen
and caw of fresh brewed coffee.
Today she will dress in at least
one of the same clothes as yesterday.
Retirement isn't rude about an unkempt
blouse, but how she spends time: children
all grown and gone, a husband lost
inside his mind, the house finally given
to decay. At the stove, she pauses
on how the eye even fumbles, stumbles
over the most familiar. Her pan of grease
cackles back.
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