Stares
at the shutters, broken,
dangling
awry on one screw,
moving
with each gust
of
wind, breeze, unpainted,
paint
peeling, weather worn,
weather
wearing, wearing
weather
like a faded
hand-me-down,
maintenance
unremembered,
left
to
the forgotten memory
of
others.
Imagines
her leaning
from
the upstairs window,
remembers
her leaning,
laughing,
the mother
frowning
in front-porch
disapproval,
but she leaning,
laughing,
not caring.
The
shutters were painted,
then.
Photograph by David Wagner via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
