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?