The chill in the room seeps into her bones,
while sweet-pungent scent of chamomile and honey
offers little comfort.
In the corner, a thrift-store lamps sits on an antique table,
its warm low light flickers like a candle flame.
The old woman rocks back and forth,
creaking on the hardwood floor.
She fingers the fringe of her gray afghan,
untangles skeins of troubled thoughts,
sips 2 AM loneliness.
The tea-cup, empty now, bids her back to bed
where she dreads the sagging mattress on the other side
that still holds his scent.
Written and linked to dVerse Poetics where the prompt is to write a poem using 2 AM.