in time
the sweet mary and joseph flow of life
lost itself
as she
wandering from man to man
sitting in the parlors of wheelchairs
touching each upon the head
in sweet caress
was lost

afeared
crossing herself with nervousness
wearing away the bodice nap
of the off-purple robe
that the angel of death
seeing such a proof 
might pass her by

stopping to preen her close-cropped gray
gazing in a mirror of empty air
and then again
the rounds renew
at once the sinner and the saint
without the bit
to pay her freight
across the river of her doom