A Scene Not Made

A week from thirty-four, your wits and ends

get tied like flies. Wynona’s casting lines,

hoping to reel in something she can save.

She tries to catch her mother at this age,

already hitched and stitched and wanting more

than what her roles required. Wynona tries,

but draws, instead, a memory like a boot.

                        The front porch. Summer. Mrs. Stone in slacks,

                        church shoes, some crabshack shirt. She’s breaking in

                        the shoes. Or pacing. Thin-skinned, overbrowned,

                        with sunken features like an apple doll.

                        She waits for Mr. Stone. Or anyone.

                        Her brow says, “Well.” Her feet though, hammer home

the surer counterpoint. No sign of him.