Like a faded photogragh
The memory slips away
Of times that belong
Buried in the past


She picks up the kettle
Pours in the water
Places it on the cooker
But forgets to turn it on

She is used to the smell
The cats are her company
Running around her home
Because no one calls to visit

She rarely comes out the door
Only to gather food for her cats
Eating very little for herself
For she seldom remembers to eat

In every city and in every town
You will find them living there
Past glory days, all but forgotten
Always alone and never visited



copyright Chris Smith 2011