Breaking rays
in soldiers ranks
invade Mother's
living room
having conquered
Venetian blind.
I sit quiet
as can,
she'll get up
when she hears.
She needs
her rest.
My morning drink
the instant,
her machine is broken
she'd given it up.
I am
surrounded
by
the past.
Trinkets of
yesterday.
Bucktoothed photos,
a painting by Lisa,
and Grandma's
salt and pepper
shakers bang drums
of dark skinned
children.
My biggest
fear is
that one
of us
will go
first.
