86 this year
time to come for the ‘annual’
you’re beautiful, Faye
white hair, set perfect

tales of life each year you tell
today I learn
you were an orphan

they lined your kind
against train tracks
in Kansas
young town’s people picked out
desired ones

you were not chosen—too tall you stood
but some years later
two midlife folks took you in
out of pity

you could not read till second grade
when you learned, you couldn’t stop
propped up school books while doing dishes

mother slapped both cheeks,
told you “wash, don’t read”
you ponder now
decide she must’ve been going through `
‘the change’

shrunken by years, Faye
you stand small before
my GYN exam table
but not afraid to climb on
for the probing
thanking me for taking time
to listen while I work

you say goodbye and add
today’s final story
a dog mauling:
pins in hips,
plates in elbows,
scars front and back

nothing mars your beauty, Faye
so vivid still