Each morning
in the fractured
shafts of sunlight she woke.
Then, powdering the rubber girdle
would slip it over the thickness
of her hips
abundant curves like a ripening pear.
Her body swayed
with the morning streams
of buses and trains.
The other women too,
their coarse fingertips
fashioned by hours of typing
tight in their laps.
She told me of this
years later.
Her stiff knuckles,
swollen with time.
No comments:
Post a Comment