Tuesday Poem

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