Sage Drive

A candle burns with its flicker and flame
in my mother-in-law’s suburban living room
a little too close to a Raggedy Andy doll
rested at the foot of an antique lamp
complimented in color by its shade.
The dim room shades a polaroid,
out of place and without frame,
of the Virgin Mary’s reflection
in some glass office building in Florida,
I am told.
A Boyd’s Bear is there as well
propped in a seated position—
a thought of but not sought after collectible
I am sure—
placed among knickknacks and nothings
inside this cramped three-bed, two-bath
with a finished basement on Sage Drive.
They park their cars against the grain here
with no threat of a parking ticket, tow,
or timed meter running out.
A phone rings, it’s Diane,
the neighborhood gossip queen,
second marriage, stay-at-home mother of three,
spreading rumors of a break in on Brierbrook Avenue,
two streets away.
“Lock your doors,” she says,
“for the rest of the week anyhow.”