in our cool living room
(sheltered from summer heat)
when the old man awakes from sleep
and asks, are all my sisters gone?
I lived a good life, he says.
Yes, you’ll make it in alright, I say.
I ask him what he thinks it’s like,
and if he thinks he'll see them.
He says a little; I don’t press it
For I feel we’ve touched, perhaps,
a depth I haven’t seen in some time
(or maybe ever)
I listen, instead, to the sound of traffic
coming in the open window.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 28, 2016
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