won’t be deterred, though her cough
clinks and rattles like a bottle delivery.
The porch covers her; rain and shine she
sits cross-legged on the doorstep, not
watching while the street happens,
coughing to punctuate life’s sentence.
Somebody should tell her the fifties are
over, that no one’s going to photograph her for
Picture Post, that she should quit
smoking. This morning she sits behind a scaffold
as though it wasn’t there.
Two men crab-walk the roof above.
