on a bench
in the park,
an old woman
sitting hunched in the
aggregating dark—
her gaunt,
tortured fingers, the pallor
of sunscreen,
knitting where she
gnaws on an out-
of-season nectarine.
Though silent
and wearied with her
quest for its pit,
a sticky voice
cuts the glum
dusk air to bid you—
do not forget:
in your life
there is someone
even now, whom you love
that you need to
call and check on.
