They wheel her out to the gravelled square,
Position her next to a backless bench;
A blanket weighing down her bird-frail lap,
Those gummed-up eyes examine the horizon;
Pigeons scrounge around for hardened crumbs,
A cat navigates through a thistled yard,
And the spire’s crooked finger points upwards
At the bloodlessness of unclouded skies;
An unwatched clock counts out what’s left for her.
Later they’ll wheel her back to that building,
Municipal looking and many windowed,
Where she’ll be talked at by television,
And leanly linger in a weakening past.