There’s a magnetic lean to the front

of the elderly, knowing they’re dying.

Will I be next, they say

as their curiosity bends in

to smell the freshly tossed earth,

circling the inevitable grave.

There’s a reticence from the heart

of the broken soul knowing it’s over.

Will I finally leave, they ask,

as they submit to one more abuse

from a partner who says they deserve it.

When will alone beat feeling lonely?