a fainting, ghostly presence
with a tail so naked it was
embarrassed to drag behind him.
My mother-in-law and I sat at the kitchen table. She was eating oatmeal while I read Possum in the Garbage aloud. Mary doesn’t say much, so I wasn’t sure if she liked the poem or not. She has her favorites, many memorized in grammar school back in New Jersey. Somewhere, I have a recording of her reciting Wordsworth’s I wandered lonely as a cloud.