She’s dying as I write this sentance.
A grand old dame that lived a life-
A mother, a daughter, a widow, an actress
She is a piece of of the local fabric
And that fabric will soon be torn
And we will be torn with it.
We call her mama
And she lets me too
Even though I am not
Officially her son.
I am not prepared for her death
And death does not care
But her children care
Her stepchildren care
And I too care, feeling from the outside
As she lies in hospice
Not wanting too many people there
Perhaps she will have a last cigarette,
Enjoying the thing that is killing her in the end
And perhaps it will be great
And she will fall asleep
No more coughing
And we can begin