Fridays we crossed the George Washington Bridge
to sit at her table.
Each time, she said, as if sure
he would forget, “Sol, what about the boy?
Give the boy his wine . . .”
Here she is:
my mother’s mother,
propped on the metal frame she pushes this way, through the grass.
On the bench, my grandfather sits behind an open NY Times—
my grandmother speaks for him.
Not even certain whom she speaks to,
she nonetheless says,
“Sol was wondering
When you’ll get a haircut . . .”
She is at her ease, now, outdoors, in her wheelchair,
the attendant beside her: at times
rising from her seat, as if to instruct or to remember—
the two of them chatting like dear friends.
Most of the trees are still bare.
The two women have coats on.
From the window, heat comes off
the stove coils.
At the far end of the yard
the dark pines sway.