Elderly Woman

An elderly woman, I think dying,
would listen to my poems quietly
into all hours of the night.

No one poem touched her
deeply, I don’t think, because
she lay there rapturous,

listening so intently, with hardly
a comment, but would pull up the
blankets to her eyes, as if

hiding a tear, or blotting out
a sob because her past is
forgotten or, I think, dying.

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