At dusk, the street is fairly quiet.
An old woman fades into her porch,
her hair and shoes most visible.
Her son, who has palsy, sends
various tunes out by harmonica.
He rocks in a straight-legged chair.
Inside, the musty, crumbling boxes
of their sixty years together
nearly reach the ceiling.
Only a jagged fall of cement squares
cuts the overgrown backyard.
A willow spills into the alley.