The old house, this big room, in the closet an altar;
belong to someone that’s gone.
He knows he’s not supposed to,
but he wonders when it will be his turn.
The tree by the window wilts,
On the radio, they are not playing his song.
At times he thinks the fight is useless;
At times he feels it should be won.
There’s a picture on the dresser,
Yellow corners and a plastic frame.
In it, he holds me and I laugh;
In it, we didn’t know.
Artwork by Harriet Rollitt. You can see more of Harriet’s work here.