Tourist

I barely move now. Nearly still.

Crawling beneath a shell, 

the past stacked high, scales 

for every memory. 

Inside each, a photo or two. 

Some letters. A wool cap.

With my load, I amble 

along, here and there. 

No sense of where. 

The question every day, 

where now? 

What is life without a hill to climb? 

There must be a hill to climb.

A widow must step outside 

and look around,

pick up a tool and get to work. 

She must choose a path and clear it, 

then fill it with flagstone. 

No good to stroll about  

like some old tourist 

in Chinatown.