Who keeps all the shades
down in her cottage,
at this retirement center,
the black car covered in dust and pollen.
When was it last moved?
I know she smokes
because I saw an ash tray
when I took her some flowers.
That must be what drives
her to the porch to sit in the heat.
On my walks, she might call out,
“I thought it was time for you.”
When I’m in the car, I wave.
I don’t think she has visitors,
and don’t know what she’s loved
and still loves.
One day I’ll stop and ask.
I can’t forget that song,
Old people just grow lonesome
waiting for someone to say,
Hello in there, Hello.
