Aunt Estelle Poem by William B. Watterson

Hunkering animatedly,
a sleek, black '47 Olds
patiently purrs
atop a newly-paved
concrete driveway,
poised to spring into motion.

Aunt Estelle, freshly coiffed,
meticulously manicured,
leaning decorously out the window,
smooths imaginary wrinkles
in a new, black chiffon from Saks
and chats with Jessie
about canasta.
She obliviously peers at O'dell
pushing a wheelbarrow
across the garden.

Raven hair shining, eyes flashing,
Estelle is in her prime.
Events flicker quickly
across the shimmering screen
of her luminous, radiant days,
morphing from one frenetic frame
of success to another.

What can she possibly know
about electroshock
and rubber sheets
or window bars
and padded rooms
in a place they put you to die
because you can't recall your name?