The Home

Alone, thinking, almost dreaming,
Sloshing coffee in the bitter cream,
Wondering where her keys and coat went,
Maybe wishing she could up and scream.

Alone, thinking, always frowning,
Speaking with the others once a day.
A drop of water in a lifetime of drowning,
An unremembered prayer left to say.

Alone, thinking, slowly dying,
limply laid like linens on the floor,
Wishing something, any thing or body,
Would bring back the years that came before.

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