In the home of my sitter.(New poems)(Poem)

 
In the home of my sitter 
 
   Mrs. Duane Krauss, sure of her solitude, 
   grimaced between the kitchen alcove's cryptic 
   lesser motifs of Elvis and Saint Jude, 
   herself the central subject of the triptych: 
   her young-old country cheeks and looming bust, 
   the timely smile, gathered around a lie. 
   She called me "dear" she bowed, she briefly fussed, 
   then turned to pat her mother's china dry. 
 
   I did my part. I showed how bright I was, 
   how self-assured. But I lacked common sense. 
   Even the dogs there knew--and not because 
   she humbled them with cozy sentiments-that 
   friends, not being family, not quite, 
   keep out of trouble and keep out of sight. 
 
   Across the white hill swallows fanned and scattered, 
   drawing my eye along till I could see 
   atop the hill--tilted and mossy, flattered 
   by early sun--an old barn, tempting me. 
   Morning to suppertime not much else mattered. 
   They must've known. I wanted them to know. 
   Morning to suppertime their still den ...