October 5, 2017 at 2:25 pm Leave a comment


the old woman sits sighing
half-shaded from the sun: all
her springs have run dry, she lives

for the Sunday promenade
and muttered lines with old
friends (the summers of 50
years ago…)

her husband died
ten years ago–to be sure, at times,
she addresses him: but yet knows
he’s really become

only a part of herself, a reflection
of the labrynthine passages
of loneliness, memory, frustration.
her senses have, yes, dimmed: she’s unsure

what the young man looks like
who’s lived two trailers down,
for eight months. if he’s spoken
to her, she hasn’t heard…

her body has become a prison, covering
a self only she can remember.
sighing in the hot sun,

the old woman sits, hardly
knowing Now, telling her memories
like a bitter rosary: to
no god at all.


Real.  Long ago.  I’ve nothing to add.


Entry filed under: Ancient Poetry, of various sorts, Pain, social psychology. Tags: , .

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