BACKING UP

He takes her for a walk each day.
Backing up the street,
holding both hands to steady her.
Year round she wears the same
green coat and hat.

Walking past their run-down house,
I wonder what despairs lie hidden there,
behind those ancient curtains
that are always closed.
I imagine them to be floral,
like the ones my mother
had in 1952. And just as old.
Hard to reconcile this scene
with his closely-cropped hair,
his shiny red truck.

I see him leave for work some days
and wonder what he says of her,
alone in silence,
while he is gone.