she never had to worry about
where the rent money was coming from
or the tedium of turnips cabbages potatoes
or baloney the only meat
overnight it seemed
but unknown to old friends
she stood in line at food banks wearing her
front edge frayed the thirty-five year old Holt Renfrew coat
bought after late husband’s salary raise
she had no teacher nurse stenographer tickets for jobs
besides too old but not old enough
not quite a senior
straight grey hair now trimmed with nail scissors
used to have weekly root tint manicure pedicure
trips to belize umbria and broadway
former home renovated with polished granite counters
air conditioning and cleaning ladies
now an apartment over a pizza pick-up
stair treads dipped and dirty
she works as a kitchen aid
in an old folks’ home
her only child volunteers for rape victims
in zambia
she emails from library computer
tells him how life continues
to tick along nicely
with news of old neighbours and
child’s friends

Joyce Harries

Joyce hopes to soon find a publisher for her third book, the sequel to her first book. Meanwhile, scene by scene, she twiddles with her novel. It’s taking so long, she forgets some of the many character’s changing names.