Seven Years
　　 by Daisy Fried
　　 These cold days when the insane sky's clear， heat poofs away be-

　　 yond its net of edible blue. My cat folds， flops across the laundry

　　 steps. Flags the size of jeans pockets flip-flap affixed to rowhouse

　　 fronts. The nicest， cleanest hands reach to switch out lights in

　　 stores： futons， ring trays， eyeglasses， dresses， go dark. "The bed is

　　 not very big." Cold or no there are fathers calling mothers and child-

　　 dren walking home or out； also those of us who are neither father

　　 nor mother and have forgotten the complicated unchosen knits and

　　 methods of being somebody's child. Hires Root Beer signboard

　　 creaking， then not creaking. This year Thanksgiving dinner begins

　　 in the afternoon： a moist bird， venison stuffing. Window glass goes

　　 blue-indigo. "Is this the right crockery？" Cold little birds， like knots

　　 of twine， jam the Japanese Zelkova just outside， gabble in the light-loss

　　 hysteria. The Dow Jones dropping. Friends' kids leer from photos I

　　 stuck on the refrigerator. Last night I slammed a door so hard the

　　 mirror hung on it shattered over my back. I was not hurt； moreover

　　 he stopped shouting back， ran in his socks onto the crackling glass，

　　 put his arms around me？

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