Lunch with the Widow Cortez
Withered winterhair,
no color left, curls,
great grey curls,
silver. She
has skin like rye dough,
liver spots,
dirty,
cracked
walnut bits.
Her face off-center,
rotting shed full of
engine parts,
Madonna de la Melanoma.
Bicuspids elsewhere,
ground down as
bio-waste at dentist,
and she's now gnashing
spaetzle,
the Deutch delicatessen.
The cataracts like soft
padding, her eye, tapioca
spilt beneath the iris,
and the world in the bottom
right corners.
She asks the bill and
I ditch her.
I go to the restroom.
There is a boy, six
or seven years,
just turning the faucet
off. His hands are wet
and he can not reach
the rotary towel.
I lift him up.
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.