After the Guests Have Left
It seemed the right thing, to invite
the old man home for Thanksgiving,
to pour him a rum toddy and include him
in family chatter, until he stood too quickly
and toppled, ending in the hospital.
Which was it, then, kindness or
indiscretion to seat him at our table?
Now sober, we feel winter
through the windows, ourselves
in the lone crow on the wire. Leaves
let raindrops carry them
earthward. We struggle so.
Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems of protest have appeared here before as well as in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Rattle, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, and more.
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