Many old people aren't emotional better than those homeless of mine.
Some started with a numerous family until one day no one came anymore.
From the telly their hear only strangers wishing them a Merry Christmas

My name says that I am a Rose,
a withered one
on a old folk’s home,
getting to be ninety-one…

The first years everybody was here,
they came so I didn’t to be alone
when older son as Santa by the tree
shouted Ho! Ho! Ho! Welcome!
and from the bag took packets
full of toys and secret wonders
getting small screams of delight
from the little ones and from the older.

The second year a few were missing
sending regards with a bottle of cologne,
I suppose so I could get that old smell
that age added with time onto our bones;
and many postcards to set in a long row
like paper soldiers on the mantel over,
to say we are sorry for today’s absence
but next year, God’s willing, we will come.

The third was too busy a year, I ran from
and back to answer so many telephones,
saying they were wishing me so dearly
a Merry Christmas, and for absence atone,
I would be getting handmade fruit cake
from the very hands of all my daughters,
so, with every slice I eat will remember
they will be thinking of me their mother.

After that it wasn’t time for more call
what with one school’s plays or another,
some postcards do arrived like tears
far in between, making all so somber,
that Christmas became a dreary day
of wait and sit on a long corridor
having nothing merry to talk about
when the snow fall and you are alone.

A nun came the other day and asked
what I wished, and it will be done,
looking into her eyes I saw a promise
which only God could grant and allow,
to give me, for a lonely little prayer,
a Christmas without this four walls,
but there, where all the angels smile,
I wished for Him to take me Home.

My name says that I am a Rose,
a withered flower
in an old folk’s home,
a forgotten one.