The Closet

Her life has not diminished
quickly enough.
Everyday,
sitting in the wheelchair,
dressed in white robes,
expecting someone to walk
through the door
during visiting hours.

She thinks they've locked the door.
Visiting hour's over.

She opens the closet,
and stares at her familiar things.
The picture of a grinning boy
with a fish in his hand.
She reaches for a book with no cover.
Opens the yellow pages
with her purple-dotted hands.
Inside lies a dry rose,
the carmine color barely preserved in
SIXTY years.
An awkward smile
appears across her face,
the prairie smell persists,
She reaches in for a silken tie
and with it,
shakily caresses her wrinkled face,
trying to suck all the warmth left in it,
if there's any...

Ring!
Time for the soup.

She closes her life carefully,
making sure everything's in there,
and leaves,
locking the door,
twice.