so many memories of women close to death

at my dawn, in my youth, bony hands cold grip lingering scent

decay

not right away, but it snuck up on ya.

old potatoes mashed between dentures and gums

sometimes the smell of cheap brown gravy

all acrid salt pungent and prepackaged

their smiles are maybes half remembered

arise early, with a dusty night

some unused room, stiff scratchy sheets

against soft young skin

dim lit, every room

but by the best window they’d sit, and fret

cold hands bony grip, tight

everywhere else  --  has gone soft,

cold feet in thin slippers

they slip momently away