On Sunday mornings, I cast long shadows,
I am the dark rider in black attire
taxi cab yellow and fast on licorice thin tires.

Tiny and weak in my micro-mirror,
there comes a lady so slight in a garage kept car.
Wax swirls gleam and circle in the sun,
the last act of her man tucked up tight.

Dark veins through translucent skin,
floral perfumed, powder dusted pastry.
This brittle white bun q-tip; she has outlived him
despite the bearing, bloating and bleeding

My body tenses,
I take the right most six inches
which is all she gives.

Windows air tight, bifocal eyes on a chain,
in bony finger death grip
she passes with the tension of a bomb defuser,
so close, I could touch the car.

I imagine her ritual:
Saturday at the beauty parlor,
“Wheel of Fortune” evenings,
weeding the vegetable patch,
dwindling friendships in a frightening world
where she only grows smaller.

Isolated in the church annual
a hesitant smile as empty as her photo
along side beaming families.
Prepared for a paradise
where she’s no longer required to bear, bloat, or bleed.

06/07/2005

Author's Note: We meet each Sunday.

Posted on 06/08/2005
Copyright © 2024 David Hill