Not Told

The old woman held her tongue.
A heavy golden key rested there, sunken weights.
Her mouth was filled with ocean water--
every tooth was a pearl.

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15/30

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2/30 It must be five o'clock already in Chicago, the clouds are full of hail. The books on the shelf are segregated, one for fiction and one for non. I hear them shouting at one another. They shout letters of the alphabet. At the antique store on Western the son of the old man talks about the deal he got on the fabric upstairs--because some old lady died and nobody knew how much that fabric was worth In the room that is second to the entrance there are bins of old photographs. An old man squats, tending to a tree. Dad. Sun Morn. '48. I guess nobody knows, but I'm standing over these bins and I can hear the books at home yelling the alphabet at one another.
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All caught up!

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