Maribeth sat
in her crippled
Bentwood rocker.
She was alone.

Stony,
her dapple furred cat
sniffed his way cautiously
from the back closet
and landed in her lap,
contented to lie quietly,
not yet brave enough
to snuggle and purr.

The dishes were washed
and put away.
The table was pushed
against the wall
and held
that heavy crocheted doily
that nobody ever ate on.

The children were gone
and the grandchildren
no longer ran through
the house
furling the streamers
that were supposed to hang
sparkling around the knoll post.

It was Christmas
and Maribeth was alone,
rocking
across a creaking oak floor
and stroking
the shy but contented cat
she had once shared
with her husband, Charlie.

Marjorie Compfort
estelle_williamson@yahoo.com