An Eighth of a Lemon
For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens
who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,
life's Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.
poem by Donal Mahoney
Added by Poetry Lover
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