Mary Christine Poem by (TPAC) Alexander Coppedge

Mary Christine, doing outdoor tasks, cuts, clears growth from her home, strong laboring acts, long moments hours alone, fighting efforts to do no wrong; carrying a song: for her lost lover.

She dresses, completely in black, rolling furiously back and forth on her mower; trimming grass, stroll her eyes, viewing others that see a faceless doll: with sudden blurs, unroll lists to do, alone.

The dawn up ray, beginning her day, out of her home safety she breaks, speaking not even a hey said, Mary work all day, doing chosen tasks her planned way; move off items from lawn.

She stands momentarily still as a statue, like a broken clock, silent, joining her hands in a lock, peering to mock a rock; yielding its vision of another no: seen is a black stone.

Hours did labors, enduring the hot sun, tend outside yards; darkness to bend, vanishes her, end day, quitting efforts, back safe in her home: do a daily trend this, into a fort.

Later, she's seen upstairs, battering herself, sitting is a hater; to cater it, from eyes drips water: chills in solid dark by this window, and up stare.

An actress, confounded in loneliness, plays a role, absent of an old love, showing her white, or total black, stories told: did her alone, deny gold heart loss, await his return.

Days came and went by, years passed, holding a memory of him; recieved thoughts, anger her, Mary, blame she dragging full day, shame: rise every dawn, inside a tiny frame, rocks, a widow.