Anniversary by Richard W. Halperin
Halperin, Richard W.
You left your shawl on the chair.
I don’t know what got into you.
You never do things like that.
I enter the room and there’s the shawl.
In the morning the light hits it.
Part of the fringe touches the floor now.
It didn’t used to.
Sometimes, I suppose, gravity pulls it.
Last night I thought I heard the chair say,
‘How much longer? I’m not her shoulders.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re not.’
In the morning, the weave catches the light,
when there is light.
‘Doesn’t this desk have a chair?’ the mover asked, ‘Did my
buddy move it out?’
‘No to the first,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Good.’
The light hits the floor where the carpet was,
or the hole where the floor was.
You were always so careful about that shawl.
You never wanted it to brush the ground.
Why did you leave it on the chair then?
You never did things like that.
Copyright © Richard W. Halperin 2010