The cards spread on the crumbling table;
oddly lined and stacked in a child’s game;
the tin box of goodies and sweets at hand’s reach;
she coughs and grabs the snuff so predictably.
Time has stopped for her, she has no more
of a need for it than she would a tank or a sword;
a great partner at play with the bribe, as always
her heart gallops with a known excitement.
Little legs came from another land it seems;
though in summer every day, at the same time
he makes his appointment with the lady;
wrinkly, who sometimes still gardens a little.
No pet around, but the old TV set seems to meow,
bark, buzz with lives hunched over by the hearth;
she wipes her nose nonchalantly, adjusting her glasses;
it is already the third hand and she is points behind.
The sun lingers, thinking of a short night ahead,
ripening wheat, corn and grapes, bored yet faithful,
the lady has little care for much any more;
the hands on the clock have fallen with the last news.
An accident, a calamity, a storm, a war, a few gunshots;
hunting season again, is it? Ah, she might kill indeed,
for the taste of the latest vine of her fields forgotten
no longer harvester, like the child she once was, she plays.