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Mike Borka

Mike Borka reading© 2007

Passing By

Arthritic hands push a Lawn Boy
cutting a fresh path across the grass
Back and forth she marches in the yellow August sun.

Sweat rivers its way down garish cheeks too red with rouge
Pools in skin folds and hangs briefly suspended before

Left, right, left her private parade goes on.

In the street a smoke-gray hearse travels its solemn trail.
Slowly to the corner. Slowly to the corner. Slowly to the corner and turn.

She stops
Turns to the procession and tugs at the house dress that sticks to her back, her chest, her shoulders.
She folds her hands and rests them atop her belly, fingers not quite touching knuckles.

A chorus of tires keens lowly against the tar to mark the passing. The mower whines.
She stays still.                     

Coin purse (poem)