Sharon Lask Munson
I recall my studio apartment,
brass bed, two drawer dresser,
stand alone oak wardrobe,
one reasonably sturdy lounge chair,
acquiring other essentials:
electric burner, tea kettle,
mismatched cups, saucers, plates,
and a nearly new record player
along with a small collection of LP’s—
from a secondhand shop on Sudbury Hill Road.
Even today, yellow mums bring to mind
the flowers I bought at Ipswich Market,
the earthy scent that lasted for days.
I look back on my friend next door—
Faith’s Arabic coffee
infused with cardamom, penetrating walls.
On winter afternoons
branches from a horse-chestnut tree
brushed my window, cosy in the rustling.
Warm summer days found me outdoors
under the tree’s dappled shade,
poring over Anya Seton’s latest novel.
At night I’d listen to strains of Mozart—
warm rich sounds of Dennis Brain’s French horn
lulling me into slumber.