Going home from work,
I'm always in a hurry, but still,
I'll stop to check on the widow
who lives on the corner.
Sometimes, I find her
framed in the picture window,
watching TV and looking lost
in her husband's overstuffed recliner.
Sometimes, in the wooden rocker,
a shadow in the shade of the Boston ivy
that shrouds the end of the porch.
Sometimes, savoring the remaining sun,
sitting in the swing
that took her days to paint.
I hurry on home to tidy our house,
to do the laundry and make
his bed and mine,
to prepare a meal which we eat
in front of the television set
so the silence won't scream, and then,
he channel surfs,
to stare in the same direction
until weariness overtakes
and I straggle off to bed.