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Growing Old MAG
January 7, 2013
She sits and lives on
In a room, somewhere
With a doorknob that collects dust
In a nursing home that doesn't have
bingo night
And a son who stopped trying
To get her to pick up her phone.
And a year of silence now between them
She sits with words
Ready to attack
At the sound of any compassion,
And a closed mind
Marinated with her thoughts,
Where they bloom into wild,
Unruly thorn-bushes.
Until one day, the service boy
Interrupts the woman's mealtime
To find her all alone, dead.
© Amanda G., Baltimore, MD
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