Poetry of Issue #7        Page 50

A Pinpoint of Sunlight

In the window only a pinpoint
of sunlight and I gazed again
at our neighbor's empty porch,
so bare of life; for months
no one had come, not even in
the cold weather when all you
had to do was wear a warm
sweater. I thought of Carl who
lived there, his pipeline for
zest, friends, and attention.
He and his wife must be
lonely; the only one who'd
ever come was Donna who
would drop her dog off when
she'd go into town. I saw
the unhappy look on his face
one day; and, before then,
a part of his neglected garden,
a bush so brown and dying up
against the house. The very
last time I saw him tending
the lawn—a man on the verge
of eighty five, and my heart
tightened seeing the strained
look on his face and him
pushing the lawn mower out
of his sheer force of will.
I wish he didn't have to be
so vain, and I prompted my
husband to bring him over
one of The Cake Lady's pies,
hoping soon a robin peering
under its wing will brighten
his skies.

  Bobbi Sinha-Morey