in her black dress,
a walking antique.
still
intent on catching the eye
of each man,
each woman passing by.
those better days
are pages turned
in a book written
long ago,
which doesn't
seem to bother her.
a splash of perfume,
a wig for hair,
a stripe of lipstick
go a long way
in masking the fear.
delusion is a grand
thing as we age
and slowly disappear.
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