Published: December 10, 2009

An imploring sigh issues from

cob-webbed lungs

and curls raspy and melodic,

just like the too-many cigarettes

she had smoked at galas

and benefit dinners

a lifetime ago

It diffuses

and seeps into atmosphere

high above the Manhattan skyline;

it mingles with thunderheads

over the Kansas plains

Who says the offering is adequate just because?

Still,

the old crone stands transfixed,

warm granite in a quicksand square,

and shakes the horizon with her rattling breath;

She’s all clenched fists and gritted teeth:

clock’s ticking.

The corners of her mouth are

crumpled arrowheads that fall to a fleeting earth

and splinter into fine powder hued peach and rose

Then follows the grand arch of her spine,

stately lineage faced with imminent demise

ground by time, brittle bones

offer little protest in the twilight

She asks only:

“Can’t I keep my pearls?”