An olive branch,
in hot September,
on a bridge of embers,
entices the *** to stir.

But her table’s always empty,
even if food was plenty-
too broke, too broken
for any to gather around.

A med concoction,
from no other option,
except the great allure…

A barren planner,
hung on a sun faded wall,
by a nail ripping through
it’s cross-stitched heart.

This is what reminds her-
Reminds her she’s all alone.