is so lonely it froze in the year –
or during the decade maybe – of Covid,
during  the ice storm of cracked branches
when all the electrical lines snapped off,
when the inside temperature matched the out,

In a pocket of the night no hand
wanted to sink into, my front door
just stayed there dumb as a tree.
Its brass knob has been lonesome
for years now really. We use the back.

There is a little light the size
of a thumb nail beside it.
The light is dull the way blood
flushes a thumb nail a weak ruby. 
No one presses the dull light.
The chime-box in the hallway
chimes no chimes.

One Halloween I forgot to lock
that dumb door. A year later I got 
new candy out in the old bowl
and found the door had stayed unlocked
an entire year without anyone busting 
through with bad intentions
in a place plumb happy to be left alone.
                        

Born in 1935
she worked up until 
the time of Covid 
when she got a pneumonia
that landed her in rehab

where she moves
as if pearled fog and sleep
pull her on a string
behind a walker
that has two fluorescent,
yellow tennis balls 
on its back legs.

Ann is so thin 
that if you made 
a pencil sketch of her,
then laid the pencil down on top
all that would stick out:
splayed split ends, 
a bulge of sweater,
butt curve, toes 
in gripper-socks.

Today she tells me
she keeps six horses
in a field above Pride.
She hopes 
to saddle up again.
Hopes at least 
to feed them from 
her open palm
the way she always did
apple slices, carrots,
share a honey bun.