There were many old women, but old men there were few:
What bent the old women, broke old men in two.
Clutching their hearts, the old men were no more,
and so through their closets the old women tore,
to find a good suit of quality flannel,
and buy a coffin from expensive oak panels,
to see one last time how her spouse lies prone,
the lapels of his suit beneath hands of stone.
Little by little apartments appeared,
and later merged into neighborhood squares,
where death was abuzz and thieves were feared,
as lonely old women repeated their prayers.
They spoke of death as if she came in
to join them each day as they sat drinking tea,
much like Anna Petrovna — thin,
like Maria Andreevna — melancholy.
Like sailors, they rose early each morn,
Like indians, sitting in darkness they’d linger,
Combing through braids, sparse and torn,
Turning old strings of beads in their fingers.
They went to bed early like soldiers do,
but to sleep isn’t sleeping for long,
minds spinning with dates, where and who,
those they loved, and those they’ve done wrong.
Each of them gaunt,
grieving,
merry,
toiling —
waking to the sound of the night tram’s tolls,
the very moment
insomnia lolls.