Poem: Raking by Tania Rochelle

Raking

Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We're lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane,
takes the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they're the lucky ones--
shriveled Anna Bell,
loving her crooked Lane.

Provided by American Life in Poetry
Reprinted from "Karaoke Funeral," Snake Nation Press, 2003,
by permission of the author.
Copyright (c) 2003 by Tania
Rochelle.