Night of Day
Thumbs circle a rim of china –
small, slender hands hold a cup –
she gently lifts it from her table
in search of
pink painted lips.
Visitors watch with amazement –
as she slowly moves
in night of day.
They talk to themselves –
“I am glad she will never know
how people stare,”
She takes another sip of coffee,
feeling for the sugar –
begins to touch her cup, then
slowly adds sugar and stirs her
coffee as she smiles
at my voice –
replaced her spoon on a napkin,
she asks, “Please pass the milk?”
Another friend comments on
roses placed on her kitchen table –
sweetbreads cooling –
a photograph – taken years ago.
I smell the roses every day,
cut more for tomorrow –
I taste fresh-baked bread –
I feel a face – touching his photograph –
remembering what life used to be.