The man's stump
hangs at his side like a tuber.
He pushes his cart
and stands in line.
The stump is hairy, like an old man's ear.
I watch my mother
struggle from walker to bed,
the laborious lifting of a leg,
the settling in.
The collective exhale
when she opens her eyes
Written belatedly for the host of Friday Flash 55. Here's to hearth and home and lingering at the table. Have a good weekend.