The mean elderly lady as old as a typewriter

Sits stiff in her wooden chair

At her vintage four-legged wooden table

Enjoying the scrumptious coffee aroma coming from the pot.

She watches her favorite 1991 sitcoms

Black backgrounds and white faces   NICE LINE

The way she likes it.

Her wrinkled skin sags like a turkey’s neck

Her thin, gray hair shoots from her roots

Due to her stressful past.

Her emotions are absent

But her silence speaks loudly

Her eyes are wide open

But yet so closed

Eyelashes gone

Just like her happiness

Her big bags hanging from her droopy eyes

Like ornaments from her mini Christmas tree

The thumping sound of her cold dying heart

Makes everyone near her extremely hot

The door with the curtain

She never enters

Because of what happens every winter.