Old Lace

Daylight slips in and out
of yellowing net curtains.
Sunny wafts semaphore the sky.

An old lady has planted
her mind in closets, 
in drawers where
an off-white linen recalls
lavender scented dreams.

She could to the garden,
but it has grown alien,
rank and beyond her.

In the apartment
lamplights go out
then never replaced.
The sky still squints
through fading lace,

Ghosts claim to know her,
but she shoos them away
when they talk of tomorrow
and other unnecessary things.

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