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There were newspapers spread
From table to door Lest anyone tread On her fresh-scrubbed floor; And she polished the windows Pane by pane, Inside and out, after Every rain. The day was bright When they buried her But the hearse was a sight-- One splashy blur From yesterday's mud; And The News, unread, (With her death-notice in) Fell with the spread Sheets on the floor. Her husband tripped Over them . . . burned them . . . swore Tight-lipped. __May Willams Ward. |
Seesaw
May Williams Ward
page 22
(Atlanta: The Bozart Press. 1929)
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