Something For Florence Poem by Eileen Albrizio

A milky film over old, teary eyes.
Through the haze she reviews an abstract world.
Clarity held in her lap counting beads,
Florence soundlessly mouths her private prayers.

Through the haze she reviews an abstract world.
A stranger comes, lays kisses on her cheeks.
Florence soundlessly mouths her private prayers
and wonders why her husband doesn't call.

A stranger comes, lays kisses on her cheeks.
'Where's Armand? ' Reply. 'He's dead now.' She cries
and wonders why her husband doesn't call.
A nurse checks her pulse and her morphine patch.

'Where's Armand? ' Reply. 'He's dead now.' She cries.
Tries to stretch her legs but they're hard to move.
A nurse checks her pulse and her morphine patch.
'I had the nicest gams in town you know.'

Tries to stretch her legs but they're hard to move.
The nurse nods, says she's told her that before.
'I had the nicest gams in town you know.'
From her chair by the window, I could dance.

The nurse nods, says she's told her that before.
At eighty-nine it's hard to see today
from her chair by the window. I could dance.
She jitterbugs with Armand in her mind.

At eighty-nine it's hard to see today.
Can't dress or wash herself or write to friends.
She jitterbugs with Armand in her mind,
numbed by the anesthesia of the past.

Can't dress or wash herself or write to friends.
Her hands, they're good for just one thing these days.
Numbed by the anesthesia of the past,
there's nothing left for Florence here except

her hands. They're good for just one thing these days.
Clarity held in her lap, counting beads.
There's nothing left for Florence here except
a milky film over old, teary eyes.