In my loft
A broken screen, dirty windows.
A year later
I still see the rooftops
of the school across the street.
No children or buses arriving,
Quiet on the playground.
Alone again today,
I cannot mend the screen.
I can clean the window.
~~
My dog has taken to whining.
I hear the sound
and look down the stairs
to see her standing, tail up,
by the dog door.
Go out I tell her but her look
tells me I am missing the point,
and she continues.
It’s about to snow
and I did not take her for a walk today,
lost in past and future.
~~
My jeans have grown tighter
in the pandemic.
I’ve started to take
my grandmother’s round form.
I feel the strain of
waistband and belly,
long to put on my robe,
And eat the pieces of hidden chocolate.
No more effort to fit in.