An old lady walks down the street,
Bending on her walker, shuffling her feet.
She does not think what the epitaph will say or
Just how long she has to write one.
She does not dream of a spring day and the
Scent of the carnations and the
Shine of the black box and the
Smooth of the satin lining.
She forgets her investments and the
Ache of her only husband; instead, she
Pulls the hood of her raincoat over thin and white hair,
Inch by inch by fragile fingers at the first tap of rain.
At the end of the block she turns around and
Aims herself towards home.