Inevitably, the conversation turns. She says,

I'm not going there, in reference

To her ninety-six year old mother.

She doesn't have to state where there is, we know.

We agree, and we know perfectly well

That we are going there. The conversation

Turns again, perhaps to the indictments,

Why won't he just die for God's sake? 

On to more immediate concerns: moles

In the lawn, a new grandchild, the state of

Peaches at the farmer's market, mice 

In the Civic's engine compartment, again;

So and so going to a wedding in Santa Ynez,

So and so at a family reunion in Montana,

So and so going nowhere at all (that would be me).

Then the weather—hot, dry, hot wet.

Will it ever rain? Will it ever stop raining?

Then a pause, a quiet, a regrouping,

A shift, a mellowing, a realization, the kind

That resonates deeply. None of it matters.