Old Ladies Home

Sharded in black, like beetles,

Frail as antique

One breath might shiver to bits,

The old women creep out

To sun on the rocks or

Themselves up against the

Whose stones keep a little heat.

Needles knit in a

Counterpoint to their voices:

Sons, daughters, daughters and sons,

Distant and cold as photos,

Grandchildren nobody knows.

Age wears the best black

Rust-red or green as lichens.

At owl-call the old ghosts

To hustle them off the lawn.

From beds boxed-in like

The bonneted ladies grin.

And Death, that bald-head buzzard,

Stalls in halls where the lamp

Shortens with each breath drawn.