Tim Stiles
Stroke
They let your lemons drop, Mrs.
Get up. Get up. Get up.
I don’t want it to be done.
Cities of prayer connect and hum,
and God is God does and God is:
but you still gone from your place on the porch.
What-have-you type words folks think you were crazy to say
come buzzarding in and crowd up the room, but some of that
summer dusk sweet on the lips/have you some fruit in
stays lost from the group and private for me.
I can sense the clock around the flowers
face back at eighty years and find them empty now,
and the drones still go and go and go.
Get up Mrs. Get up.
Two hundred dead lemon smiles of testimony and grief
are strewn about the yard, and your old lady straw hat
won’t wear on nobody else.
Page(s) 33
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