Spare Change  #128
October   18,  1997

By the dying twinkle
of the Christmas tree lights
Dead grey stone, split open numb
shades of drab pewter
A blanket of ash with veins
Her grey hair lay limp crumpled
a soggy sock hung over a lamp shad.
Eyes, open black pools, and dragging.
Muting, I feel them-
Her eyes have squeezed the last out of life
and now lie uninteresting

Ruffles and lace
an intricate halo of birth
strung around her neck
like a roach in a dish of peppermints

Lively lace could not save her-

Pale pink baby buttons
walked their way down
the front of her bloated stomach
The gallbladder
Ripped from her years back
is clenched like a white knuckled
fist pushing its way under thin skin

Shrunken hands and bloated veins
still clasping her last dollar
spare change for the reaper
A job well done