Yesterday,
I saw an old lady
Sipping tea,
And by the way,
I thought her quaint.
Frail and precious
As valued as cut glass,
A hint of a grin
Shading her chin,
And quivering lips
Whispering wordless prayers.
Her failing eyes
Stumbled upon
A nearby paper
And scanned the lines
(Her specs in her pocket and her mind of rhymes).
Filled of hate, hunger, and death,
A naked world standing erect,
Shouting obscenities,
And feeling no shame.
And I stood
(too shy to cover this profanity from her eye)
Bearing the burden
Of a billion whys.
She blinked not a lash,
And turned to her tea,
Setting it gently,
On you and me.
James K. Richardson