Waiting Death

She chants and maybe meditates
a little
eighty of age.
Views of friends come and go.

The youths are admirable.
Come and go
to work, to dream, to the infinite.

Look at the cars, she says,
it gets really crowded on weekend.

She stands at the window
then she sits, chanting in a language I couldn’t understand,
praying for the day she
would be release.
Fear.
To go and never come back.

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