The Musings of a Small Child

I wonder about these Russian dolls,

Smaller men coring hollow cases.

I wonder and worry about myself:

I am an old, old woman;

The type with a fascinating back-story

And no one to go home to.

The type that wells your sympathy

Into the begrudging chore of paying me mind.

The type that lives alone

While the rest of you get to die alone.