Mammy’s Fever. Promote Yourself

So very beautiful. Written from the heart and soul of the poet.


Her small hands lift the cool, white sheets

their pastried skin,



Beneath folding, looping veins

bones of steel.

. . . .


thoughtful fingers

tapping lightly in little rhythms

begin gathering the cool sheets for rehearsal.

. . . .

Moving through time

they trace

the patterns of the life they now describe

. . . .

Outside the window,

the cat

that was never there


Mammy  dreams


in her hospital bed,


making pleats.

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo, professional cellist/pianist from Pennsylvania; amateur poet/essayist.

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