Everything is too shiny and too new
so the old women huddled at the corner table stand out
in the way all tedious and determined old women
stand out – they have long accepted
the disappearance of youth and power.
But still they linger here
in a town whose borders have not changed
though they have watched their own
gradually sag and wither away, bits and pieces
of body and memory blowing away
in a cold November wind
that seems colder by comparison
than the ones they lived through
when their backs were straight
and their eyes were clear
and the faces of the other women around them
looked forward to the unknown adventure of a long life
instead of the cold solace that a grandchild has promised
to bring fresh flowers to her grave each Spring
and that the picture the newspaper will use
to announce her obituary is one in which
her hair looks nice and one she remembered
to put her teeth in for.