Mason
Mardi enters a three-bedroom ranch,
sees the problem right away.
Granite counters, marble floors.
Slate hallways, bluestone hearth.
Basalt tub. Rhyolite toilet.
Limestone sofa. Onyx armchair.
Quartzite bed, jasper pillows.
Obsidian labrador.
Mr. Thompson arrives at six.
Widower, eighty-three, emerald eyes.
When she poses the question,
he gazes at a spot past her shoulder.
When I was nineteen,
I worked in a quarry.
One morning, the sun struck the
cliffs and lit up the feldspar like a
delta of diamond rivers.
Mardi waits.
And?
Mr. Thompson smiles.
Isn’t that enough?
First printed in
The Blue Collar Review
Norfolk, Virginia
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV
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