The frayed clothesline still holds my wash. Most colors have faded, no longer present tense. In the window my refection is a puzzle of deep lines, a myriad of fleshy folds. In the background I see the cemetery. A dark man gently embraces stone and rests it in fresh turned ground.
Families picnic in the city of memories.
Children run among headstones, play hide and seek. I am fifty, time to buy a dark suit. Removed clothespins drop into a basket. I fold my shirts.