Miss Margaret.


Old Miss Margaret
sitting by her window,
     a thin pale light glowing through
     around the edges of
     stiff curtains
     and dusty baffles
wraps her head in
effervescent shade.

Poor old Margaret

she knits a scarf
for the wont of moving hands
that spoon fed small children,
and a variety of pets,
but for the passage of years
now lay idle,
inevitably procuring their
own obsolescence.

What is this?
Does poor old Margaret complain?
A sigh,
          no more,
envelops her silvery locks,
ticking with the wall clock
at what might have been,
but what a sigh!
From somewhere deep inside,
as if pressed by a great weight,
restrained by sheer will
from crushing her bones.

[sigh]

And then a cough.
Margaret wrinkles her nose,
bony and long, it hurts.
She says it felt too much sun,
and now struggles to shed
its tight sheath of dry skin.

"Stay out of the sun,
That's what mother used to say,
God rest her soul,
But did I listen? I was too head-strong
for that sort of thing. Listening that is.
A bit foolish too, mind you.  But I suppose
those things go together.
Margaret rocks gently in her chair.

"Foolish... Foolish"
tsk tsk, brush the aire.
"Yes, I was head-strong,"
crik crik, rising from the chair,
"That's what we called stupid
in those days,

when I was young."