As she sat there, mindlessly

tapping away at the keys, I looked

on over her shoulders, at the gaping

sunset that was about to transpire.

Her legs sat folded on the piano chair,

with each finger tapping a broken tune,

on a broken piano, on a hot summer’s day.

Mama had left for a while, leaving us two

alone in the house. I had asked you if you

wanted to walk to the nearby beach to skip

some stones. You told me in that sassy 

voice of yours: “Mama’s gonna get real mad

at you if you go,” to which I replied, even 

sassier, “Who asked you to come? Stay here.

I’ll go.” Forty years later, the beach looks

different. You look different. Where was Mama

now; it’s just us two. Alone. Finally, you’ve

made it to the beach.