MARY HARVEY HAS BEEN PUT OUT

An edgy knock, not unexpected,

a notice nailed to a weathered door.

An exodus of bed and boxspring

scores the worn linoleum floor.

Old photographs from her apron

cartwheel on the cracked concrete,

A drawer falls from the painted bureau,

a lampshade rolls into the street.

The evening rush slows at the corner,

the earth turns to meet the night.

She straightens cushions in the shadow

of a street lamp's saffron light.

Lays a pale scarf on the bureau

looks back once and walks away.