Poetry

An Old Woman in Washiungton DC

She shuffles down the walk on slippered feet, sun in her failing eyes. Next door a mourning dove emits a four-note cry. Down the street some lawn mowers are running. There was a time before the soreness and the wavering straight lines in early summer, like right now, when she would cross this very street, clickety click, in party shoes. Eddy. That was his name. His mom had a small dog.  

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