Rita June,

staring silent at Indiana snow,

robed up in a worn, old, pink throw

lights her cigarette by the kitchen window.

 

She squints and she licks her thin, blotted lips,

and she nods when she comes to remember

that the five grown-up children she brought from her hips

are all coming over for dinner.

 

No one else is awake.

Ed is sleeping. 

The pale sunrise is Rita's alone.

She starts the coffee,

sets the paper on the table,

eats a Starburst candy, and she

lets her mind go with her smoke,

drift out the window screen,

past the narrow, peeking grey sky.

 

She plants herself in silence until morning grows too long.

 

And then

awakens Ed, hair messy and

white t-shirt, heavy

step into their Folgers and news-

print sweet kitchen, his gaze does not

sink, Rita stands by their sink in that fluffy pink

blanketed in love,

Why, hello, Rita, Rita, Rita. 

And she's there at the countertop,

where her arm and her cigarette rest, and,

Good morning. How did you sleep?

And Ed smiles, that's all--

Ah, Ri-ta. Ri-ta, Ri-ta June...

 

It is past ten now, and--

 

As they take their morning medicines,

Ed holds her close, tender

as he whispers the words in their own quiet language

that won Rita's hard head when she was young, 

and keeps her heart warm, 

Always.