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
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