Abandoned in America

Her mind,
four years old,
was once eighty-two.
Her age, eighty-nine,
is two-timing.

Her silky white hair
was once black, every strand.
The child she became is beautiful.
She laughs with the first light,
and moans the day's end;
she is a child her grand daughter’s age.

Bowed, her posture.
Crooked, her knees.
Her eyes seek the moments lost,
making it hard for me to find her needs.

Today is forgotten;
she lives in the bygone.
She’s abandoned and lonely;
it’s all in her gaze.
She looked at me hopefully;
her words pierce my core:
“I’m from America and I want to go home.”
She doesn't believe her beloved
would do her this wrong.