Shush, shush, shush
November's 3 a.m., and silent
save the bristle straws of my neighbor's broom,
she carves a floor, her porch planks bared
of shushing leaf crumble.
Morning squad lights did not wait
politely outside the pane, knocking pause
or whisper through the carved mail slot door,
but spun to fire the phosphorescent starmap
painted on my walls, spun to light
her husband's shroud-passage,
my own breath sparkle.
She swept the floor after him.
I cannot hear the crackle of her synapse,
sketch her cerebellum's curve
as she sweeps, shush shush,
in the snap cold of November,
and would not tell her son
(he of the vinyl siding)
what his mother does to chap her hands
between his two times weekly visits.
A leaf falls in twilight hush
to tap her window,
waken her from daylong sleep.
She surges to her kitchen's night,
stands and waits and waits for morning.