The Weakness of Words

There used to be a woman living here –
the oldest member of our H.O.A.
and mean as spit, abusive, raining fear
and loathing till they carted her away
(a memory care unit has her now).
But in those days, she did her part and more –
she gardened, vacuumed, hauled the bins, knew how
to scream and bitch, but also do a chore.

And I, then second-oldest, also toiled.
I paid the common bills and kept the books.
When she was gone I took on more, and tried
enlisting others – young and acting spoiled.
I didn’t yell. But all I got were looks,
no matter that my words are dignified.

This entry was posted in Aging, Home, Language, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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