That bell rings on the hour every hour
Like death to an old, emphysema’d hag
who smokes to her content
waiting for something better
to come along.

Hacking and coughing – reading the paper
never finding “story, section B pg. 22”
but reading every sales ad
like a recent college grad
with resume in hand.

She tears out coupons one by one
to sit on the table collecting dust
with dreams of being used
for that 27” color TV set
with no foiled antenna.

Her rough edged clippings are the closest she’ll get
to that box of dreams and hopes and fears
besides that pack of Pall Malls
and that damn phone
ringing off the wall.