She says she's hungry again,
but her lap tray gives her away.
Innocent rations remain.
Ignored by the mind astray.

She asks for the time of day,
but the clock stares back dismayed,
for the day, the month and the time
bear the guilt for the aging crime.

The future's guilt may be greater,
the unspoken final negator.
Not heard, not seen, not feared,
not blamed, not cheered.