No Friendlier to the Secret

She was always on time
Even early,
Precision, at 85,
The last measure of character,
Something to gauge
If her son could be trusted
With the gas bill
She would ask
Him to pay
On the due date
At the grocery store
Every month.

Seasons now wearing thin,
The words of others sounding tired,
Promises like a five-minute lap dance.

Even In her prime,
Gestation, her calendar’s battle
Against things to do.

Now, closer to the other side
Of her own mortality,
No friendlier to the secret.

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