I heard my mother
in her sleep.

It is pretty, she said.
But it belongs to her, not me.

The neighborís
orange tom,
I believe.

The creature
loves everyone,
even me.

But when it greets her
through the screen,
she thinks itís asking
for my wife ó
so unsure is she,
so little her self-esteem.

A forgotten necklace,
dress, or diamond?

Quite possibly,
or a girlís soft
white hand.

Held tenderly,
it might have been
her own.

Frail now,
addressing whom?

November 1, 2006

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