Sunday Morning in the Neighborhood
Church bells chime as the man next door
and his daughter play badminton with no net.
The lady across the street pulls a weed
or two then sits on her front porch.
The young guy who revs his car motor early
on weekend mornings, takes a break
to roll a tire into his garage.
Later, neighbors all inside, birds chirp
as if happy the humans have gone.
My friend Laura gone a year now.
The gentle movement of her head
in hospice after morphine, after
hearing my voice told me she knew
I had nothing left but good-bye,
to her, to the cancer that grew
like a house fire, burning
every room without hesitation.
Fire no intervention could smother.
My hands empty, I took one of hers
in both of mine, clinging to the warmth.
© Robin Wright
Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in, As it Ought to Be, Bombfire, Loch Raven Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, Rat’s Ass Review, One Art, Young Raven Literary Review, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.
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