at first it was the walls
high of dressed stone
and then the small windows
workhouse windows #
that’s what they were
see
down in the kitchen how small they are
the cooks looking up through the steam
to the balcony around the down
see now
there are nurses in and out of these doors
where the old still remember the workhouse
although they know not the day
or why i am not their mother
but the stigma - yes the stigmata
god - the stones are hard
and toil’s dried tears resides in mortar
between the stones
and the night light flickering
where the nurse’s station hums
the tune that ages have imbued
with just enough care for the days ahead
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