The Last December Snow is predicted. I hurry to shop With other women Out to beat time And the weather. ‘I have a sick husband at home,’ I whisper to myself, Trying out the words. Wrist-deep in sorrow Among the canned goods, I think of dishes To tempt him to live. Soon it all descends. At home, The story falters. The satellite connection Has been lost, The screen goes blank, The ending is unclear. I lift my dishes to the heavens, Helpless, Waiting for a signal. | David - Brown University Graduation |