At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.
I pass solitary in my car.
 
Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.
 
The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.

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Y. J. Hall
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