Mother - rough

She holds the milkman's hours
on her eyelids, five thirty, six o'clock
in the creases of her palm.

Does the early kitchen fog
remind her of Ohio?
Does the pressing coffee remind her
of her father's cream jugs?

A gray damp newspaper
creases under her elbow
and the radio voices glimpse
like birds at the feeder.

She's shaped her windows like his.