Even after a full day
of housekeeping
at Johnny and Kaye's
near the airport, stripping
the sheets
of Robert Goulet
and other famous
passersthrough,
she would stand at home
at the sink with her bucket
of potatoes, and peel
and slice
as the lard melted
in the skillet.
She would hum
like Loretta Lynn,
whistle a song
like a sparrow striped
as the vast night
wheeled out of the east
and made plans
vined into the suffering
of every soul.
She was someone else’s mother
standing at her kitchen door
watching
as the fireflies bedazzled.