Lonely Hours

Where do they skulk

away to die,

those hours, lonely,

useless, wasted?

Some stop for one

last drink to fortify

the will to leave

chalk outlines on the ground.

Some are dumped

in assisted living to melt

into bingo markers

and lumpy mashed potatoes

Their deaths are cold

case files for no one

will confess

to killing time.

published in Entropy