by John David Muth

               Washerwoman,
               Crow's-feet crab-ass,
               Drinks her tea alone
               In the blue-black light of 5AM.

               Lunching in a hospital café,
               There is no one to visit,
               She just likes the smell
               Of sterilized sick,
               A Boiled hotdog
               In a cloud of ammonia.

               Cemetery stalker,
               Glides through the graves
               Like a ballerina,
               Leaves flowers for those
               Who cannot shake their heads.

               Before bed,
               She prays for Paradise,
               Been praying for eighty years.
               Piety brought her longevity,
               Or, maybe,
               No one wants her there, either.

               Issue #4 vol 1 Fall/Winter 2009