Grandma's spine bends inward
as she steps slowly through the door.
Her snowy hair glows in flourescent light,
as she moves through the narrow hall,
looking for a nod & "hello" from strange faces that
stare at slippers.
No one speaks.
Her wrinkled face searches for understanding as
she returns to her tiny apartment,
TV humming late into the night,
Remembering her farm house
& her husband who brought her flowers & poetry,
apparitions that entertain her mind at twilight
when she can't sleep.
His snoring is gone &
there is no one to bake apple pie for&
shadows dance on the white wall&
she remembers the generations whose diapers she changed,
when days were filled with the hum of a vacum cleaner &
rugged hands scrubbed dirt from dishes to sounds of children,
her man whistling outside as he worked the fields with tractor.
Now the refrigerator grumbles &
there is nothing to look forward to except CNN &
Sunday's outing at the grocery store&
Her aching skin does not want to shower or
move in this compound of elderly ghosts walking through halls,
& she plays a game with herself to keep the lonliness out.
She is talking to a four foot midget named "Otis"
who follows her around,
adding conversation to the breathing room.