February 7, 2019Scene from a Restaurant Window
He pried open her hand,
first her thumb—
she trembled as he did so—
then her fingers, one by one,
gently as if their years together
made his task easier,
as if the cane she walked with
supported them both.
Time.
Gnarled, stroke-worn hands.
I envied her as I watched—
eating my lunch alone, as he placed
her open hand upon his arm, her purse
over his own stooped shoulders,
as they shuffled slowly
down the street.