In a room with 47 people
Some of us are great friends
Others I barely know
The younger ones group up
The middle ones group up
The babies don't know
The ones around my age look with eyes of knowing
They feel realer
They can look back at more
But it won't last
They too are fading
Who comes in later to sit, I wonder
And who has been forgotten
And later
when I am just one small piece of that last person to come to us
will the woman numbered 47 be remembered by her at all?