Ann arises, raging

Ouch! and Stop that! echo down the hall.

The man who kissed her at war’s end:
long-buried underneath his folded flag.

The beer they drank out on the dock:
just a photo now, and not stocked here.

Her ample lap, the babe upon it:
gone, and never coming back.

She shrieks at the insult of the diaper,
the wheelchair, and the aide who strapped her in.

Glares across the breakfast table
into sad eyes gazing back above their bibs.

Finds no solace in the soft strokes of the hairbrush;
screams at every tangle in her thin white hair.

Feels no sweetness in a gentle touch:
her fists are clenched against the lotion.

Ann is lost.  Her sunlight fades.
She raves. She burns.

Does not go gentle.