The Old Woman Curates A Hall Of Fame Poem by Raj Dronamraju

Skin like mouldy pumpernickel bread
Bent sporadic teeth arranged like the remaining headstones in a neglected graveyard
Clothes in the condition of an old doll's lying on a table at a yard sale

The metronome wears out and she barely keeps it going in a rocking chair in the front room
There is no voice available for complaint, just the squeaking mice of memories the chair squishes with each repetition

This house is in the condition of its inhabitant
With a sheet of plastic in the place of glass over a window
Cold and dirty and hostile to the creation of new good times, new positive experiences

Yet she is not without company
On the walls are her lovers
Framed photographs in rows, not in any type of order, not ranked by affection or performance

Her hands are a nasty warty muse for children's nightmares
With them, she keeps her unruly snowy jellyfish mane out of her eyes
So she can view her hall of fame but all the faces melt together

Stained soul ratbird subsisting on crumbs
Her only achievement was having enough lovers to fill a wall, create a hall of fame
But memory has long since faded, individual details are as decayed and gone as devilish half-smiles and short skirts