Send her to the warehouse. She's old, immobile, a bother, non-productive. Put her on the shelf in a cell And let her time run out. Here, though, is a way station - A final home in this life. Not a cell, but an apartment, a home - A place of peace and reflection. Here she can hold court - Heal and be healed And be ready when the train arrives.
©2011, John A. Mills