Megan Lohne

She extended on the bed-
Green plush sweat suit and keds.
Her wrinkled hands age spots laid contently on small-
protruding belly.
I am in the chair.
It is foam and hard wooden handles.
Both eyes
glued to a television.
The pope is lying on his heaven bed
and the people are crying.
Silence seems adequate-
She turns her curly mop top slowly-
“They call Philadelphia the electric city”
Her head rotates back, as though
nothing had transpired.
I do not answer.
The silence continues
rich bells sound.
The particles of incense flying
permeates the air.
“They call Philadelphia the electric city”
This time she does not turn her head.
Stolidly she remains.
Inching her foot to the edge of the comforter.
Slowly crunching a fresh Werther’s Original.
She does not remember the first.
“They call Philadelphia-“
She stops.  She cannot recall.
I wait to see if it comes.
Not this time.
I say “The electric city” she looks at me.
She says “They call Philadelphia the electric city.”