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.

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