Peapod

they'd know
within an hour,
she says, nodding,
sipping her tea,
wetting her finger
to lift the last
crumb of toasted
bread from her
china dish, her long
hands are strung with
purple veins, like
vines below the flesh.
i wouldn't die like
that, she says. i
wouldn't lie there,
like she did, unfound
for a week. i have
people. i have
friends. neighbors
who look out for
me and i look out
for them too. my mail
man would know. my cat
would cry. she looks
up from her plate
smiling but with
glassed tears
on her blue eyes. i
have a son in
california. she pauses
and sighs, but isn't
that what this all
about she says.
being loved? i don't
know i tell her.
sign here. i'm just
working for peapod.