Dragging behind them a life's ruin of dreams,

they file through the dingy doors alon,

huge black handbags or crocheted totes

tucked between the bones of gnarled hands.

Plastic flowered rain bonnets steadfastly

protect the tight curls of gray and white perms.

Still solitary, they take their seats,

too tired to stand in line for their coffee

and cups of chicken noodle soup.

They hunch and stoop over steaming dishes,

perusing a purse-sized Bible or the day's crossword.

Some of them stare through the ecru walls,

so sure that only yesterday

the well-known wrinkles of an old man's eyes

smiled back at them from across the

empty eternity they face.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Beth Kinderman. This is my original work, so please respect it.