Lunch with the Widow Cortez

Ray Succre

 

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.

 

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