What must it be like
waiting among strangers
to die?

The past has been wiped like
puddled milk from the kitchen
counter,

Vanished like the coffee cup
constantly misplaced, liquid
grown cold,

Devoured like the oatmeal
raisin cookies in the green
glass jar.

The weeping willow where she
and grandad box-stepped,

the apple trees in the orchard
that supplied her sauces and pies
and cobbler:

Now, all are withered and wasted;
small, hard fruit worm-ridden,

rotting on the ground,
waiting for decomposition.