Living Room
In the living room
she sits—
In a chair,
the upholstered kind,
old-fashioned with winged arms—
a chair made for conversation
or reading.
A floor lamp illuminates her.
And next to the chair, a red walker
complete with wheels
waits to take her other places.
A series of slim paperbacks
sit sideways between her lap
and the chair’s arm.
She chooses one at a time—
her cramped hands leaf
through the pages, shaking
as they go.
She finds a page.
She reads.
It is not just any living room—
not just any old woman—
though she might think
it could be.
The living room
has an audience—
young, old, female, male, black, white, brown.
I am there.
Adrienne Rich reads to us
on a soggy Monday.
We hear the turning of the pages.
It is that quiet in the room.
We listen.
Commenting is closed for this article.