for her, from acorns on
the oak tree, pelting her deck
like a roughneck, to her saggy
pertless breast, that cannot sit

straight on her chest, to strands of
her honey hair clogging the drain
in her bathroom tub. So, the water's
moving slower than a slug as

she's lifting the plug. It's hard
getting old. She's cold all the time
as the sun falls from the sky
and blackness starts at five. Leaves

fall with her, and wither like her
aging skin. If she had back her younger
days she'd fall for the boy next store,
not ******* the kitchen floor.