Awkward bodies strewn
on slightly uncomfortable furniture
Purchased on consignment
By a woman with nothing better to do

Who just wanted her husband
to open the door
one last time
or, at least, for death to come to dinner

Huffing unsolicited medication
on an inconvenient schedule
Existing, just for selfish children
with unresolved guilt

and hopes
and dreams
and fears
and ignorance

She mumbles “it’s a scam, you fools”

“What did you say, Grandma?”

With a smile drawn
from the quiver of bitter acceptance

“When’s dinner, dear?”