This one is in the style of an old friend and from a while ago.
As Sam
I keep catalogues of decay now.
The Queen Anne's lace dies
like a dowager, all arthritic frills and obsolete. Keeping the moondust
from heaping in drifts in the front parlor takes up twenty three hours a day.
I sweep with a broom made of my children's hair. On the last hour
I rest.
I wipe the animals caught in formalin preservation with the silk from my wedding night gown, all cream and pearls and stains.
My favorite is the Throughbred foal who died before breathing
as alabaster as the mausoleums of Egypt. They say the filly is the daughter of Secretariat, but I'm not sure.
I fall asleep considering all the bribes that would be necessary to restore time's movement to my still and moldering world.
I wake to dream.
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