Deja vue

Sometimes it makes me sad
to see someone so old.
Her legs hardly work,
she kicks around
the city-library
in her wheelchair,
gazing at the home decor magazines
through her thick glasses.

She passes,
struggling,
and its painful to watch,
I ask if I can push her anywhere
she looks back at me,
piercing my young soul
with years of pain,
her eyes widen,
then she falls,
dead,
on the multicolored carpet
for all to see.

Cold air sends chills
up
and out the top of my head.
I rush to her side,
lay her flat,
run to the phone,
it's almost like no one else
is around.

9-1-1
I dial,
hard,
and deliberate
We need help,
she needs help,
come qui-

A sound comes from behind me,
her aged body is now rolling slowly,
like before,
to the magazines
and I am still sitting,
silent,
with my pencil
and scrap piece of paper,
remembering her death,
but it hasn't come yet.

Sometimes it makes me sad.