At the end of the road she lives alone
a too-thin woman in a too-thin blouse
all silver hair and ancient creaking bone
the leaning presence in that leaning house.
Mothers rush their children past with warning
"a lonely victim of our fathers' war"
the widow they call sick with old yearning-
drinks wine and eats dust, her grin like a scar.
Always alone, she hums quiet songs and beats
with tapping toes all while spirits sing songs
to her about our futures, quiet and neat
in sturdy little homes, safe where we belong.
At village funerals, dressed in all lace
she looks prideful, a wide grin on her face.