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Mon 15 May, 2006 02:53 pm
Call Forwarding
She tells him
she is busy tonight,
that the office is deserted
and she must work late.
She tells him
that she is shorthanded
and must return to the office
very early in the morning.
She tells him that eventually,
when she catches up,
she will spend more time with him,
that she loves him.
He does not know
that a strong hand
rests on her thigh,
that her wry smile
suppresses a childish snicker,
that others are witness to his rejection.
He does not know
that her exhausted tone
masks a lilting laugh
as she sits in a cozy corner
of a quiet, darkened restaurant
telling lies on her cellular phone.
Was it your hand on her thigh?
His name was Harry Stubbs.
Not my hand.
I was working on a report two tables over. It was one of those hours in a restaurant before and after the rush hours when there are more staff members than there are diners. I frequently wrote there. I wrote this one just a few months earlier and a couple of tables away.
Diane's Hands
Diane stands straight and poised,
her hands gracefully folded,
as she listens attentively;
then serves her table with diligent care,
purposefully curling each finger
around the handle of a pitcher
as gently as she would remove a child's tear,
as a skilled musician works the sensitive stops
of an antique instrument,
carefully cradling each plate as if it is crystal--
as if every meal is to be served to a king.
Strong as a potter daily molding clay,
crafting sculpture from shapeless mass;
tender as the first blossoms of spring,
performing an extravagant display;
as the fine strands of a spider web
appear fragile, but possess great strength;
meticulous care reveals secrets
her petite figure and soft blue eyes confide--
strength, character, and elegance--
reflected in her delicate hands.
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