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gospel hour

by prudence thomas

Someone died.
And yet all I can think about
is the old woman I saw
at the bus stop today.
She leaked decay
foul drafts, so I
hold my breathe,
shuffle a little away.
"I'm going to Gospel Hour,
spent all morning,
deciding whether to go.
I have to rest a little,
though it's only round the corner."
I listen to her age broken voice,
hum and say "ahh." politely.
Her hands are shaking,
her hair whisps about on
liverspotted cheeks.
"I've had my little rest,
I'd better move on,
gospel hour, you know."
All I know is that
her eyebrows are
penciled in.
She shuffles off,
shaking and wheezing
and all I can think of
is her.
Penciling her eyebrows in.
For Gospel Hour.


copyright © 2003
prudence thomas


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