Old –

Three women, widows, and waning fast.
Two hundred and thirty-three in six tartan slippers, only one cheats on that arithmetic, other two lost ability to count beyond noon.
Three lives, sleeping tablets on toast, swapping newspapers, large print library sliding across shelves in a very clean house, and it’s Church as usual and prayers by the bed.
Two woke up, one, the ageing liar, jumped out of a window, and escaped to live in a Walden Cabin with Thoreau, listen to his casual bigotry, his transcendental-existentialism, feel better than near-dead.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poetry & prose and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s