Old Woman

Alone, the music playing on the radio.
The radio, a voice in the dark hours.
The hours, long and cold and drear.
The dreary tomorrow that relentlessly comes near.
Tomorrow, a day to be again alone.

She shivers, and huddles closer to one desolate bar of heat.
The glowing bar struggles against the damp.
The damp of the rain that falls and falls and falls.
The falling rain that is cried from steel grey sky.
Grey sky, no sun, and still she sits and shivers.

Her purse, empty the day the money came in.
The day she collected her pension and shopped.
The shopping, barely enough to keep her alive.
The life she remembers, and the pictures from long ago.
Pictures, of family now moved on, in her purse.

Day to day, she plods along, with the radio.
The radio that is her sole companion.
The voice that makes her mourn the lost people.
The people who should care that she is old
And alone.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/10/10