Post meridiem

Let us pull over the curtains for this room
And paint the walls with withered pale-orange. 
In front of the windows half-opened
Stood her, a woman exhausted and
Well past seven decades, who stood upright and poised with a
Little circular cup fixed securely between her palms. 
Inside her cup of tea, friends have passed by and by
Like the fleeting clouds—contemplation—leaving only afterthoughts. 
The telephone kept ringing. 
She turned around and quickly sensed my intrusion. 
Her eyes closed firmly, but she stared forwards nevertheless—
Past her eyelids—into her horizontal bed far away.

"Who could it be?"

She asked, but I did not answer. 
Lately the telephone has been doing the ravens' work, and
No good news could come from cancer or chord. 
Her glassy eyes made sure that I've stayed
As innocent as I first walked through that door
(Or, as I could pretend)—then she walked off
To seize the call.

Dale Chou
2001-10-11