I cannot say I understood how bad things were,
and yet, I knew the look that came into her eyes
when she would say the word: "poorhouse" --
an abject horror, and a dread, of what had been,
and might yet be. This was her truth:
and nothing mortals say or do, or ever said,
or ever did, can take away the fear she knew,
and knows, and goes to bed at night with,
there in the nursing home, alone
wondering, when she wakes in the dark if she
is somehow way back there
Like this:
Like Loading...
Tagged: Tags Poetry Reality
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
View all posts by Beleaguered Servant
