by Dan Friedson
We talk, one facing the open refrigerator while the other fishes dirty plates out of the sink. Through the window in the door, a mound of cracked leaves settle under the large oak. I tell Amelia it’s a beautiful day, she says the yard needs cleaning. I shape the breath in my mouth to sound like the words she wants to hear. They’re not unfamiliar, just words I don’t say. I hand her a glass of water that she doesn’t know if I mean to hold or give.
Dan Friedson is a teacher and poet living in the surprisingly hip city of Pittsburgh.