Brunt Of The Storm

the old woman sits on the floor, talking to the vacuum cleaner, and laughing with the broom. and the pictures of children, like leaves turning seasons, stare silently from a distance, both chosen and not! the dog bows her eyes, with worry and love. and the drone of the tv, bores holes in the wall. long grey hair glistening, as sun sifts dirty blinds. and the smell of passion, has turned to old feet. and no one gives a cold damn, or understands why... she has no need of people, no need for chatter. she feeds the dog and stops, staring at the urn on the mantle... and curses softly, then breaks down and cries. only the dog, and the spider in the corner, hear the whimper, and feel the brunt of the storm!