(memories from a man in a nursing home – owen)
no one knew my sister like i knew her,
though she died way back in fifty-five;
she was beautiful as she was famous –
she’d be eighty-three, if still alive.
at home, she liked to laugh and she loved learning,
the pictures made her famous for a while;
then there were fancy men who’d always hurt her
and long long months we never saw her smile
now, no one knows what happened – not exactly –
nor how she died way out in that strange place;
but, oh, i miss my beautiful kid sister —
i knew her – all of you?
just knew her face