An Old Bitter Aunt
by Maria DiLorenzo
Thirty years she kept the same furniture
where the smoke sticks, no one sits, and cats pissed
on the stringy rug—right here she was kissed
thirty years ago before he left her.
Settling dust, house looks to have grown fur.
He remarried twice. She was not once missed,
how a cat leaves litters, she’s derelict
with Marlboro packs and coffee forever.
He’s away in Egypt with his third wife.
She thinks her 80 Ford is an antique,
thinks about the ace up her sleeve—if he dies
his social security is hers, for keeps.
Years of bad T.V. dinners she survived—
she’ll die first—who’ll note that house, not one creak?
