The Last Bus Home

by Judith Anne Labriola
Mosaic Musings
Honorable Mention, October 2007
Judged by E. Ethelbert Miller


Each day at two, I read to her, she sits
there with her thinning hair in wisps around
a wrinkled face. Old age has trapped her in
this place; she cries at night and thinks no one
can hear. A picture taken long ago
is on her stand, I wonder if it’s wise
to focus on the ravages of age.
I see her gaze at it, then look away.

At three I bring her tea and Lorna Doones,
She drinks, then pats my hand and says “I love
you nurse, now get my coat and purse for I
must go — the last bus home is leaving soon
and there’s no time to stay here in this room!”



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