Danse

24 10 2008

Today it was the grey indoors again.

Mary looked to me with her typically maudlin silence

But broke it to me on a Monday, of all days,

Didn’t she?

A hand upon her chair and an eye to the dying man she once knew,

She now gave her burden to me.

I, who deserved much less

was given too much.

For lack of time had forced her hand, strong and brittle,

To the sticking place, (it seemed, with her frenetic glances).

She cannot stand to hear the children sing another Christmas carol

While she looks on from her folding chair

Affecting a grateful smile upon her wilted face.

One day, thankfulness will be hers to pour out upon the young

Not a mandated libation from her frailty.

On Tuesday, she will dance right out of here.

Through the doors and down the stairs, this time,

With music ringing in her ears alone

And bewildered smiles pouring questions into her open arms

She will dance, somehow.

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