Where the Unloved Go
Where the Unloved Go
On a Sunday afternoon, with skies so blue,
Sweet smell of flowers in the air, what do you do?
Your youth is behind you, your kids are all grown,
Your phone never rings, you just can't stand being alone.
The silence screams so loudly, the clean floors and counters belie,
What once was a busy household, is now just so still you could cry.
The floor in front of the sink is worn from all the dishes
You once washed after meals, the table now only holds your wishes.
Standing at the front door watching the long empty drive,
If only someone would come visit, you might once again feel alive.
Sometimes you pick up the phone, thinking a call you might make,
To talk to a son or a daughter, then just put it back down, and wait.
But the waiting, you know, is pointless, they can't be bothered with you,
Unless they need some money or to come stay a month or two.
You've kept the grandkids after school, but they are now in their teens.
So your services are no longer needed, or at least that's how it seems.
So what does one do with the loneliness when you've paced for hours on end?
You put on your face, grab your purse, and go where you might meet a friend.
You pull up in the parking lot, check your lipstick, hair and nails,
Go around back, 'cause you're a regular on another Sunday afternoon of fails.
The same old familiar faces greet you when you walk in,
We're all in this place together, we have no next of kin.
They're too busy living their lives, they've forgotten they, too, will grow old.
Then they, too, can sit on a barstool, where all the unloved go.
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