In Their Forties
The street is emptying of our kids –
out running track, playing baseball.
Drawn to lawn chairs, we women
take in the rustlings of finches,
the indefatigable pinks of the orchids.
Bloom by bloom, we are emptying
our minds; all of us have given up
visions of freelance photography,
fashion reportage, going back to school –
it seems too late for these colors to help us.
Meanwhile the sky is emptying
itself of the censorious sun,
which dips beneath the roofs on our block
until the last segment glows brick red,
blinks out like the eye of a toad.
We meet at the house with the screen
porch, bringing bottles of Pinot
and Chardonnay. Filling glasses
with pale yellow liquid, we can see
right through ourselves as we empty them.
Previously appeared in Mad Poets' Review
Index Of Published Poems