Miss Tindall in a Time of Drought
Making their rounds, the twins
appear to see what’s up.
On her knees, trying to save
the garden, she picks mint for tea,
crushes a leaf for their noses.
She shows them how to
deadhead daisies and zinnias.
When their mother calls
they leave without a word,
leaving her to lean back
and rest, watching them go,
bright shorts and sneakers,
unlike last week’s sweet goodbye
when they handed her the sky
scribbled with rain and folded
like mail. She studies the hole
in the forefinger of her right
glove, wondering with a sigh
what it is she does that she
might do otherwise.
Roger Pfingston is the author of Something Iridescent, a collection of poetry and fiction, as well as five chapbooks, the most recent being What’s Given from Kattywompus Press. He has poems in recent issues of I-70 Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Main Street Rag, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Hamilton Stone Review, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. In 2020 he was nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.