THAT YEAR THEY MOVED IN
to the flat on the hill
something dark was moving
toward Europe. My father
worked in his rich brother's
store and stopped reading
or saying much. It was
so gradual
my mother
didn't say a thing sat
on her side of the black
Plymouth thinking maybe
of the men she didn't
wouldn'tthinking never.
Rumors of war burned thru
their sleepwere in the
park where you could
say something and the whisper
went to other people's houses. Everyone wore grey.
Buildings a whole
town the color of granite
and the dim light in the
Brown Derby where they went
to drink beer that whole
spring waiting for me as
bright, as warm as they'd
be for a while
By Lyn Lifshin
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