She was like this
She lived in splendid squalor,
covering the old springs in her life
with Indian print and her cracked sink
with potted parsley and red pepper.
Poking out a back window
into mud, old leaves and dog traces,
a washing machine hose periodically spit
dirty, soapy water
onto the neglect of months.
Her clothes hamper was antique pine,
pungent with mildew, sweat and Old English.
The ramshackle daughter
of the town’s porno king,
a man with a wart on his nose
and no smile, could weave beauty
into words, life into canvas
and warmth into a room.
She was not afraid to touch,
not put off by tears or laughter.
She left a smile
in the landscape of my memory
that time does not erase
and words only clarify.