Monday, July 17, 2017

Last Days by Ann Christine Tabaka

An ironing board set up in a bedroom
with old slacks draped across it,
a sliding glass door to nowhere,
this is what life has come to
inside the sheltered rooms of a refuge, 
more like a shrinking womb.
 
Lost memories piled high in a basket
like last week’s laundry,
while confusion roams the lonely hallways
of blinking fluorescent lights,
being afraid of what is ahead.
These are the rewards for old age.
 
Time spent inside one’s own mind,
living out past adventures,
while rocking away in a rickety chair,
on the front porch of your last days.







Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware.  She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer.  She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats.  Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.

1 comment:

  1. Wow, Christine, this certainly reminds me of my parents' last days up in Maine.

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