House of Cards
I miss you winter evenings
With your dim lights.
The shut lips of my mother
And our held-breaths
As we sat at a dining room table.
Her long, thin fingers
Stacking the cards,
Then waiting for them to fall.
The sound of boots in the street
Making us still for a moment.
There’s no more to tell.
The door is locked,
And in one red-tinted window,
A single tree in the yard,
Leafless and misshapen.
.
by Charles Simic
from The Best American Poetry2006
Scribner Poetry
.