The Old Woman


The old woman,
white hair in a puff of disarray,
cane leaning up against
the laminated desk…
I can see the vacant look
in her eyes
from the back of her head…
She does not understand
where the money
in her trust
or how to make a deposit
in this fast paced world
where the young voice
of the banker rises to a crescendo pitch
that I can not ignore
or the fact that I myself
am in the wrong place at the wrong time…
but at least I know this…
I can pick myself up
and say thank you,
but this is not for me,
nor is this,
or this,
and definitely not that…
Some things
I hold tight to my chest,
like the old woman holding her pocket book…
Others… I let them go,
like the rain
that is starting to fall again outside my window
now that I’m tucked back inside
and can find
the silence that needs
no explanation
or bank account to register
this very still moment in time…

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