The grocer’s helper left off stacking six packs
to meet me at the counter, me in my prodigal’s shoes,
where she totted up the milk and bread
and said it wasn’t a bad winter, only one lost,
Effie Smith who was ninety-five last summer
now gone to rest in the family plot. Meantime,
how’s your mother? It only gets harder,
the old people in these old places. They don’t ask for help
having been themselves so long they wouldn’t ask anyway.
Mine was the same. On her own, like Effie Smith,
until she left the stovetop on and Richie stopped
to pull her from the smoke—she didn’t know how close
she came to burning down the house, her inside,
goodness, thank goodness your mother has you—
well, as often as you can. It’s hard. Want the receipt?
Tell her I said hello, she’s got a credit on her account.
