S. of Vernon, Indiana, State Hwy. 7
A small, square, wooden table had been set
on newly shooting dandelions and blue grass.
The wind picked up a lacy corner of the tea cloth,
triangling it.
A small lamp atop.
One cup and saucer.
No chairs for invitees.
Surrounding it, rusted trailers were parked
like chess men,
boxing the table in check.
Across the state highway,
a house with moldy green shingles
had collapsed—
karate chopped once
in the spine of its roofline.
Teatime was over.
We motored past
with blinders of quiet solitude.
—Marilyn Windau, Sheboygan Falls, WI
