the old lady

in the back room has one good and one fucked-up eye. she's all chicken bones in a house dress, frail and helpless. she needs to be led around by the elbow. she doesn't want a cocktail, she wants coffee. she helps herself. the bad eye is watery, poked-out and unseeing, a scary egg-white blob. i wonder if, in an earlier century, she would have been accused of practicing the black arts, run outa town or burned at the stake. she doesn't say much. she's in her own world. at times it's as if she's not there at all. friends and family speak to her or at her. how is she doing? she looks at her loafers. she waits until they finish with their attentions. i imagine her young, pretty, flirting, but it's a stretch. i see her in her kitchen under a harsh fluorescent light, the dishes piled up and befouled, a smell of piss and toast crumbs on the formica. definitely a bad-picture TV with the sound on low, her slippers worn at the heel and the photos of relatives turned over. a sickly cat is curled up in a corner. i hope i get her wrong. i hope she's aware, safe, living in her own house, taking calls and sky-high on pills.