This is the house
of the poor.
Today
I am come to 90 years
like a doorstep.
There is
no hope on the hall table.
The State
is my father, my mother
is the cook here
and never gives me enough.
When are you
coming, I mean I couldn’t bear
to see you even then
but when?
This is my room in this house
of the poor, and this
is my window.
I own all outside it
as far as the peach tree which
no longer bears. We are
sisters.
When you don’t come
I will write again, when you don’t write
I will say the $2 you didn’t send
got lost.
How is your rich house
and how are your young hopes?
Please write,
send money, and come
though I don’t
want you to see me here, though
this poor house could never be home
even if I had money
or even if you’d come.