What I thought was prose was only a poem that doesn't rhyme. Here is the parallel of The Chair.

The Sink Window

The old woman leans against the sink.

She stands at the window

looking and thinking,

hoping someone to see.

Her eyes stare down long lonely lane

each day a struggle,

knees crying in pain,

she walks with faltering steps.

The old woman opens the curtains, leaning on the sink.

Only the sun comes in.

She waits, withered and bent,

no one is seen in the lane.

Each day, hope drags her from bed.

As each day drags on,

her puckered lips

sag into toothless frown.

Youth has flown. Gnarled hands rest on sink’s edge.

Her clock’s wound down.

Curtains are closed, windows are dark,

and the sink remains dry.