The Stirrings

Steve Myers

None of the old women sleep.

They come to the card game, middle of the day

and report to each other. They awaken

past midnight or in the nightmare hour

of 3:00AM. One descends for milk, 

a slice of pie, a game of solitaire,

another surrenders to a darkened den

and Netflix, folding endless underwear.

Often they wonder what sends them there—

the fevered grandchild, the daughter’s affair,

an arthritic knee. Then there’s the whole

fucking state of the country! howls a widow

replete with glittering bling and a rheumy eye,

who evenings plays a shy docent in the city

gallery. There are those whose husbands

are always sleeping, fat marmots of men.

And who knows what sends one wife 

into the sleeve of night and lilac 

for a cigarette and gin, to listen for the fox 

who’s burrowed in and will not leave.