This isn’t the day
for this she says.
We’re having weather
with more on 
the way. She snaps 
beans over 
the sink and
remembers certain things
on the line.  A stiff
breeze snaps those
things, popping 
like her beans.  She
brings them in a 
little wet.  And another
popping; the vein 
in her neck.  So now
I know, but it took
time to learn.
Apple Jack is what 
she wants.  So, I pour 
a little and she goes 
back to her beans.  I sit
on a metal chair and 
lean whittling nothing
into nothing.  She says Frank
what’s this for.  And I say
nothing, sweet.  She has
another drink and dries
her hands with her eyes
out the window. Says 
sometimes when I sleep
I dream I’m a bicycle
tire in the rain.  All treads
and spinning.  Throwing
the little beads away.  
I step behind her and 
say something soft.  
Walk her to the guest 
room and help her out
of her apron.  She lies 
on her side and closes
her eyes.  I say picture
this bed in a field of 
timothy, maybe, or rye. 

© 2005 by Jason Wesco. All rights reserved.