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Letters From My Mother

When they forced you out of work in January, you cried and wrote to me that now your days would have to fill with birds growing fat on sunflower seeds and the sound the telephone doesn't make blurrring with dust through home hours. You're sixty-eight. After seventeen years of using your brain and your time to make money for men who demanded devotion as due, you're done. Deadwood. Old and gray, the used-up mare trucked off with a shrug. Now you send letters on orange stationery, bitter moments, sweet tais from the past. I mount them in a dark album: DREAMS DONE DREAMT. And I write back to you: YES LOVE DOING