There's not even a handful of mirth

in this house, Mabel sequestered

in an electroluxed room, a whiff

of flatulent air greets her guests.

Seated on a stuffed chair, swollen

feet elevated on a Moroccan hassock,

glittering diamond earrings

make her look like a frumpy

old dowager holding court.

She wants to go home, not play

any more bingo, but forgot where

she lives though an aerial photo

of home hangs on the wall.

Neighbors who visit still tease

her for being from away.

A young Highlander soldier,

once a fine mate peers down

from her dresser in a resolute gaze.

Jesus hangs nearby rising from

the dead behind rolling whitecaps

in a turquoise sea.

No one wants a one way ticket

for the parting of flesh waiting

for your name to be written in stone.

Sent to their rooms like misbehaving

children they wait for an oracular

announcement for their hour

of departure, a journey to

the Kingdom of Cold.