The Lonely Old Lady

One of my customers died not long ago and she’d been dead in her home for a week before she was found. This is an old poem of mine written about another customer who passed away in similar circumstances. Something’s sadly never change.

She sits in her favourite chair

her dog sat by  her slippered feet,

a cup of tea in her arthritic hand.

The television is on in the corner

she sees it as a close friend,

talking to the newsreader about her day.

She looks over at her telephone

prays that someone will call,

it hasn’t rang for a long time.

The postman has been

she wishes he’d come in for a chat,

but people are so busy these days.

The pretty weather girl is talking

it’s going to a lovely hot day,

the old lady tells her she looks nice.

Struggling to get up to her feet

she goes over to her living room window,

people and cars go past so quickly.

Sitting back down she picks up her dog,

as she strokes him she starts to cry.

The old lady died in her favourite chair,

she’d been there for weeks,

her little dog was sat by her feet.

The postman kept pushing letters

through her letterbox.


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