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Alone Now

After the funeral, this man,

white hair wisping around

his ears, looks up with cloudy

brown eyes from under tangled

brows, “After 67 years,”

he says hoarsely, “I can’t live

without her.” They had a home

in Florida , now he’s going

to a new “home,”

near his son.

He walks though strange

doors, imagining the gray

glass is barbed wire,

the staff are guards,

his room a cell,

the people, inmates which look

at him and he is afraid.

The staff leaves him

to settle in. They mean

well. They’ll do their job,

leave. His son carries

his small suitcase, a radio,

a clock to tick out

time, three large

print books, yesterday’s

newspaper.