orphaned old :: marie ponsot

I feel less lucky since my parents died.
Father first, then mother, have left me
out in a downpour
roofless in cold wind
no umbrella no hood no hat no warm
native place, nothing
between me and eyeless sky.

In the gritty prevailing wind
I think of times I’ve carelessly lost things:
      that white-gold ring when I was eight,
      a classmate named Mercedes Williams,
      my passport in Gibraltar,
      my maiden name.