Last night,
a woman sang below my window of moon
light and bitter spite.
She turned a silver
ring between fingers
swollen and arthritic.
Her song churned her memories,
her futures, and her empty ache.
I needed sleep to face the day, so I said
quietly, excuse me but I was sleeping,
and she said so was she.
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Great blog and poem. My sister and I have started a new poetry blog.