Afternoon
October 7,
1.30 PM,
Birds still flying
In the grey sky,
Humid air,
Pale sun,
Hills in haze,
Invisible,
Insects hovering,
The Sunday afternoon,
Arrives panting, doddering,
Like a forgotten old woman
Coughing constantly,
Out of breath,
This pathetic figure,
Banished,
To her son’s third-room
Balcony, full of potted plants,
For the rest of
The lazy day.
A perfectly pitched delivery of a poem .