shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Joan Saunders

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Another Day

Pulling the curtain aside to peer
at the row after row of Siamese twin houses,

a snittering of snow like powdered sugar
touches the dead grass, the roofs of parked cars,
the fire hydrant. Leaning forward I see

an empty purple vase on a peeling deck across the street,
the lid of a chiminea rears back
like the bronze head of the sculpture in St Anne's Plaza.

I must go now – go to the hospital room with bars,
to Mother, with her face
like a prayer rug on fire.