We are toothless hags; we cannot spit
Properly; we cannot express hate or
    terror
But in weakness; a tremor takes us
And we fail again. It is an error
To call the aged bitter: we make no fuss
Where we are placed: we sit and knit.

If this is a Home we listen to each other
Make small noises in distant rooms. Rooms
That are boarded up we have unlearned:
We would fear to be crowded; we would
    take brooms
And raise memories; alone, we have turned
To what winter watches. There is no mother

Among the aged, who can lean down
To where there is crying. We attend two
    hands
Like slates scratching together; the dry
    thread
Is all we count. Do not make demands
On our faults; delay your own, instead;
Our finger, like the earth, is brown.

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