Jo in Pomes and Epigrams

I met Jo’s ass first.
Bent over industriously pulling the weeds of the world,
flushed face bobbing up to greet a neighbour
or burble at a baby,
or chat with a hound.
A taniwha perhaps, for our complex.
A happy busy body
erecting signs to protect your children
from speeding old women.
One pandemic later, as the complex scuttles to life,
I catch a frail frame in a hanging cardigan.
No longer stopping for the babies.
We have a gardener now.
A shadow compared to our Jo.