funny. . .

our talks aren’t that long anymore—

four and ½ scores of weariness threads stealthily

thru her golden voice;

we used to talk about

the president,

fishing at mt. pleasant with Cuz’n Sweetie,

people at her church,

places we used to go when she’d hold tight

my pudgy little wandering hand

while wandering thru the five and dime

at the cornerof 10th and Meridian

--back in '59;

she in her burgundy dress pumps,

and me in my canvas redball jets;

(I always came away with a bag of hot roasted cashews)

and THEN,

because of Sistah Rosa we could sit any place on the faded green color’d seats

on the city bus without that less-than-peaceful uneasy feeling;

and NOW,

because of the course of the unwelcomed natural events,our talks are, oh,. . . about four, maybe five minutes max--and they remind me of weeding the backyard garden

in her cozy two-bedroom palace at twenty-three-twenty-six; Halford, on the westside;

we would re-tread the rows of memories at least twice, sometimes even three times for luck.

[four and ½ scores of weariness is threaded thru her golden voice]

twice she confirms my face in a picture

staring at from her own hand-created patchwork cloaked recliner.

“Do you know where I am?”she asks with analytic quaintness;

I say “yes ma’am”

“My clock says quarter after 10”

“Mine too” I confirm.

“When you gon’ come see me?”

“Right after dinner time”

“You know where I am?”

“Yes ma’am” I say again. . . “Apt. four-ten”

I recall she said once that she was the only color’d woman there.--ninety years of stark weariness shows no mercy thru that precious peaceful voice as it wars against unwanted winds of change,

born to eventually lose--(for she has only now her spiritual provider) and she shores up her dignity in a vanishing temple,

holding to the memoirs that need no power of attorney;

her eyes fight the rolling fogfrom years of gale winds in the epoch of her evening;

and as her sandcastle of time dissolves

to Paradise Serene. . .I will remember her daily--for she is my horizon.

© 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed