march 21,2005 take 2

old folks home


sad lounge
chair alone
and cold on
bluebell rd.
discarded furniture
always signals death
as if you can see the death angel...passing...
silently through-sweeping away the lonely somebody's
grampa silver haired
silvered linings and
pockets full of hope
for washingtons.pats
on the head and stories
of the good ol' charlie
and grand days spent
and empty like memories
can't even remember
her anymore
the child that never lingers
the kisses all but forgotten
the pies with the homeade crusts
sweet history to noones
that forgot and swept their lives
of all traces of elderly advice
(keep your socks on you are sure to catch your...)
and death is here
and i pass by twenty five
miles an hour so
the police don't ask
for my insurance and the knot
in the pit of my stomach
that turns to the beat
of the wipers
and the rain and i cry for them-
sappy-and lovely(this is my calling)
and i bid farewell
to their costume jewelry
and stolen sugar packets
and their old people smell of ivory soap....
and i bid...adieu.
sleep well to the faceless
sweet dreams to the discarded...
rest in peace in the
chilly march air
and the damp aching bone
weather.you
know that i
noticed
your passing.