Thursday, April 20, 2006


Grandfather is sitting in his rocking chair
asking for the time again. Little Sally,
only nine, is flustered, her play
interrupted. She’s tired of reminding
an old man with a broken hip,
a severed mind, what time it is.

If he asks again (she warns him),
she is going to go play somewhere else
and leave him by himself.

Grandfather looks at her, his eyes
salty. She resumes talking to her dolls;
neglecting the dry old man whose gaze
wanders back to the clock on the wall.

“What time is it?” he asks. Little Sally

sighs; almost shouts, “It’s three
twenty! Three. Twenty. P.M. Why do you
keep asking? Are you going somewhere?”

Grandfather rubs his wrists; he cannot say.

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