Adeline And Myrna Loy Poem by James P. Roberts

"That is me! " she cries, lifting
a hand so wrinkled and veined
it resembles a woodsy praying mantis.

She is now 103, but still -on her good
days -remembers this creamy-skinned
ingenue, once her best friend.

That was in the 1920s and 30s
when both girls fled the Upper Midwest
for sunny California and films.

More than a lifetime has elapsed,
Myrna gone these twenty-odd years
and Adeline's world now collapsed

into a tiny bedroom with pre-planned
meals and 24-hour memory care.
Outside her window, a cardinal chirps.

Myrna Loy vamps William Powell
on the TV while Adeline dips her chin,
nodding off into another long dream.