Odd Hats, Summer Dresses
Old summer hats lie on the floor,
funeral hats, hats in hat boxes,
some still on hat stands
and one left discarded on a chair.
Her summer dresses, still fragrant
from perfumes she wore,
hang limply now, on hangers
as though they are waiting for her.
I view her dressing table, its little pots,
one for her wedding rings,
one for her broaches,
and one for her powder puff.
Her chair's empty but askew
as though she'd just gotten up.
Strange to see it like that
and look into the mirror above.
A mirror that should reflect her,
her, with her lips all pursed
waiting for their lipstick,
red or pink and then a smile.
Here's her broken watch; I hold it,
put it on my wrist
hoping its band is still
warm from her skin but it's not.
Desperate, I try to mend it,
I shake it, fiddle with it.
Somehow, if I could just make it tick,
but she's gone and the watch is broken
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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