Her boots,
and her laces tethered,
and her shawl
sloppy around tired shoulders.
Always a sequence,
always the same, but not today.
In the distance, a frozen lake.
Icy crystals float by like twinkling droplets,
cold on her eyelids settling.
Thoughts of the Sistine chapel
her sins, and her history
in a dog-eared scrapbook.
She folds the shawl, removes the camisole
and puts her boots out for recycle.
In her pocket, three strips of Valium, her gin,
and a final farewell.
Thoughts of her stillborn child
would pass very quickly,
without reckoning and shame.