The woman of the house is washing
Radishes from the backyard garden.
Her apron - a gift from grandsons who
Live a thousand miles away - has
On it a bushel-basket of apples, which
She imagines spilling out onto the floor
If she's not careful. When the phone
Rings she rushes to answer, a habit
Left over from busier years. A stranger
Says, "It's never too late to refinance-"
She hangs up, against all the mores of
Her upbringing. It's awful what people
Make you do, she thinks, looking
At the radishes on the counter, then
Out the window toward the wisp of
Children's voices, the neighbor boys
Who sometimes come over and pretend
To eat the apples on her apron, smacking
Their lips, rubbing their bellies like little
Princes at a feast, never once asking
For the real thing (which she has),
Preferring pretense, caprice, the
Staggering flavor of make-believe.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.