At Whispering Woods Nursing Home
mirrors reveal the truth of time, beauty
faded into the years. All she wants to do
is descend into sleep, but attendants
pester her into crafts, jewelry making,
flower arranging classes. She has no use
for such things. Her Prince died years
before, a heart attack while riding his horse
across the golf course. The monarchy had
ended, he was a token Prince, all title, no power.
He left life insurance, but not enough.
They never had kids because Rosamond
didn’t want to ruin her perfect size two figure.
She dreams about castles, and fairies, spinning wheels,
but when she wakes all that remains is
a sterile room, a view of the busy street,
other old faces wheeling by in the hallway
waiting for darkness filled with seamless sleep.
This poem appeared in "The Charlotte Writers' Club 2004/2005 Annual Award Anthology"
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.