Old Ladies' Home

Sharded in black, like beetles,

Frail as antique earthenwear

One breath might shiver to bits,

The old women creep out here

To sun on the rocks or prop

Themselves up against the wall

Whose stones keep a little heat.

Needles knit in a bird-beaked

Counterpoint to their voices:

Sons, daughters, daughters and sons,

Distant and cold as photos,

Grandchildren nobody knows.

Age wears the best black fabric

Rust-red or green as lichens.

At owl-call the old ghosts flock

To hustle them off the lawn.

From beds boxed-in like coffins

The bonneted ladies grin.

And Death, that bald-head buzzard,

Stalls in halls where the lamp wick

Shortens with each breath drawn.