written for the Writer's Cramp, bolded prompt words
I saw her last at the minister's funeral.
She always sat in the front row at church,
wearing a flowered shirt and khaki shorts.
It was Florida, after all.
At the coffee hour we tolerated
of inappropriate laughter
The minister had no desire
to banish her.
We offered unasked for help.
After the minister's death, she disappeared.
I sometimes see her in the morning
heading east on Radio Road,
clutching a shopping bag
in each hand
listening to the Turtle Island String Quartet.
She once had been a diver
scraping barnacles from boats.
Someone said there had been an accident.
She couldn't work anymore.
She went to ground
in the hammocks
living with toothless men and racoons.
I stopped going to church some time ago.
She and I are still searching for truth.