every friday night at the bingo hall


two folds of dusty flesh
hang over her eyes
like cracking leather pouches
nearly zipped shut by her lashes.
behind them, tired eyes are dim now
from clouds of ancient wisdom:
the world is a darker shade of gray
moving much too fast, always out of focus.
a skin-tone plastic parrot
perched behind her ear
works, part-time, to amplify
the silence of her age.
she sits in a brown metal folding chair
a mummy of faded cotton roses -
- somebody's grandmother.
the PA spits out "oh forty-seven!"
"oh, forty seven!" and her right hand,
five bones wrapped in frog-like skin,
reaches to move a marker
as the 7-Up clock on the wall
hums quietly.

© Mark E. Dougherty