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I cracked her door on a wintry day— Waist-high rotting piles Spread beyond all hope. We drove away with a crooked mouth, Her eyes on me like a galliard tree, Descanting Ulysses, Joyce and more. Read me sad poems, she softly said, Crystals, rings and virgin parchments I have seen all these. Late, I brought her home and She held me close with an opera she knew— Pratzel’s closes at two! What the hell! She fell down dead, Day after Christmas. I ate a bagel this morning.

Woman who lived, died a recluse will be mourned. By Bill McClellan ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH Sunday, Jan. 07 2007 "She is wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters, and the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor." — Leonard Cohen from "Suzanne" Most of Betty Wynn's bed was covered with trash, but there was a little corner in which she could lie down. That was all she needed. She was not concerned about the things that concern most people. On the day after Christmas, her brother, Sam Lachterman, got up first. He is 85 years old, six years younger than his sister. He has long white hair, an unkempt white beard. He has a doctorate in mathematics, and he never married. He has lived with his sister most of his life. He was in the kitchen when he heard her call out from the room that had once been a dining room. She was on the floor, which was, as always, hidden under mounds of trash. He almost stepped on her. Then she rolled over on her s