The night nurse makes her rounds
With the gentle tread of a librarian
Among closed stacks of half-forgotten volumes
So fragile they might crumble at a touch.
Mrs. Lovell in Room 214,
Who was Angie once,
Glides in sleep
Across the ice of Oldham’s Pond,
Her alabaster skates agleam
In the February sun of her eighth year.
This piece appears in Boston Literary Magazine.