On her last day
Every light turned red for me
And I think I spent the moment of her passing
At the intersection
Of Queens and Western
Avoiding eye contact with
A window washer
But on the day before
Her last day
I was a palsied audience to her slow pantomime
Of lithe hands
In repetition
Grasping at spaces around her
As if emptying pockets
And casting their contents
To slide off the sterile linen
And the bells of distant elevators
Were the loudest things I'd hear
#napowrimo 2013 poem number 14
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013