Feeding the old lady takes the life out of her.
She's been waiting it out here in the midst
of a spotless misery; waiting to putt-putt
in a little boat down a dishwater current
where death is blooming on the other side.
A mind goes crazy in the dark. Bright brains
get lost sailing down dirty water like a swan.
Too much light, a fly goes buzzing in circles
hit sidelong with a swatter, making no more
connection with the sky than an old lady
in her place. Now, she says you've got to grab
a goose on the wing, bring it down to say grace
over it, "here's dinner, eat." She makes no puns
now, she's given up on serving. But she still
can climb in a one-woman boat headed away.
And who's to stop her? If the next of us
waits in line for her chair, her assumed place
at table? And the next-next-in-line can't help
but sweep the breadcrumbs from the board,
but gets the feel of crust under fingernails.