In that house of quiet dying, through still sheers that
turn the day to gray,
only two chairs of six are sat upon, the bed
no longer shared.
She smiles, a 5 x 10 on the television top,
he laughs, a young man upon the mantle.
But, air unmoving from dining room to kitchen
old woman watches TV alone,
old man breathes slow upon his bed.
Pink and gold, crochet and arches,
tiled fireplace cold,
her vision turns to water in one eye,
his hand shakes too much to sign.
Each black night follows each day’s gray.
—Camille S. Williams
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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