Her Tablecloth

Cost thirty-seven cents at the auction after Hattie Fisher

Up and croaked…

 Poor

Sweet…

Old….

Dead Hoot…

Only thirty-seven cents and she couldn’t get the wrinkles
flattened out so she sewed them all in place with a
syncopated stitch in grey-black thread and
laughingly called that random thought
her “truly avant-garde”

And “it’s sticky to the touch,” she said, “On the hotter of the
summer afternoons.”

The ceiling there is quite high put. “Spiritual Height” I think
she said…
It’s a watermarked topography of Chinese browns from
wall to wall and wall to arch that separates the den and
living room.

The paperboy, collecting, admired soft hands.