Friday, February 24, 2017

so many memories of women close to death
at my dawn, in my youth, bony hands cold grip lingering scent
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