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mrs wooley’s end

Mrs Wooley’s song was madness.

This small distraught

attractive woman

with her fine drawn face and fluttering smile

and her unwashed hair,

bare footed and shivering in her unironed cotton,

spending her nameless days here alone in a neurotic industry of wakeful panic

and sleeping in fear of the ferocious nightime awakenings.

How they feasted in her dark rooms.

Everything is unfinished here

in this place

nothing is right.

Her dinner still not heated at daybreak,

her medicine not taken.

Which one ?

Which bottle?

A door not closed,

a visitor come by ?


The carpeted hallway of her apartment covered in a confusion of everything her orphaned hands had discarded

or dropped

or put down

or lost in plain sight,

and the small rooms were littered with what had been emptied from the drawers and cupboards in her panicked search

for something

unfinished, not found,

and the crumpled bed where she did lay herself at night.

Her pencilled letters she thrust at us

for friends far away.

She showed us a fire blackened saucepan

and her bewildered brown eyes searched ours

for some meaning to her torrents of distress.

Why ?

The last time this gentle suffering soul smiled at me

and told me she would be fine,

and she patted me away to her door.

I kissed her cheek and left.

She died a month later

alone, face down, dead

amongst her litter.

deus exsisto misericordaliter


header pic by rick harris

One Comment Post a comment
  1. Loneliness est ultimate paupertas…

    November 5, 2011

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