home(age)
Home
“Boys. Oh, boys.” She tells.
The bouts of cough in between.
The few of her pictures
Resting on the table with
A short leg. Sepia.
A cup of tea long past its
Prime time, now just stale
Lies there in its lonely cup.
The windows of the home
Produce an afternoon, dull.
Aunt doesn’t try to
Conceal her chuckle over
Memories of springs.
Touches that should have happen
And touches that have.
Her rolls of stories unveil.
Bored, I beg pardon
For a world less humorous
Than those sepia
Stories, waits outside this home.
Bidding farewell
I turned to look at the old age home…
An evening like a ripe melon is engulfing it…