In the home the women who have          no one else
to care for them     have lunch under the trees

         Shawls or scarves     Blankets draped
over their knees       Someone leads them 

in song   Childhood        ditty about a house
and garden     where vegetables grow   And lists

are ways to coax the mind     over hills that look
     almost familiar           Outside the gates the world 

rages with fevers and deaths        But no one here
looks at death           except almost companionably 

It's a guest with a non-expired pass   It's related
            to everyone               inside
You can have another cup of coffee        You can cry
or take a nap       You can replay a favorite story
Mostly it waits with all the patience    in the world
     Mostly it doesn't speak     or tell the time 

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