I feel for you woman. You with your paisely scarf. Your signet
ring. The wedding band, on your other hand. Skinny fingers, half hidden
in sleeves pulled over them. Of a striped cardigan, grey and blues. Hues of
I feel for you woman. You with your perfect hair, lean back
in your chair. Your numbed stare.
“A latte please. Yes dear, go out and play. You may.”
I feel for you woman. As you pull out your diary and do
nothing with it. Sit. Then lean forward, drop your head in your hands. Unaware –
as nobody cares – of me.