cubicle woman
The moments go by if you forget they're there. Sucking in sweetness, hot sugared coffee, aroma into memory.
It might be a warm, clammy late summer afternoon. Hints of autumn like blackberry spicing the air.
The people here are decent. They smile to make conversation a pleasant bit of business.
They want me to feel safe, cared for. It doesn't matter that we are never more than strangers,
passing faces, smiling. They bring me coffee with sugar and plastic sticks for stirring.
In this moment all of the world turns so skillfully I move along without pause for acknowledgement,
stealthily aware.
Cubicle Woman and me
The minutes move slowly, floating
through non-uniform waves of air
Here is solid, always, interminable
A small, dark woman,
waiflike were she not so clearly lined
from age or weathering
Her movements almost frail,
yet surely determined,
movements like one in a dream
where objects may so easily
transform
Not like this solid place, this
monastery of healing
All in gradations of white,
air almost frigidly white
welcome in the fever
White walls, clarified air
take well to imagery
Vivid primitive paintings
cadmium yellow, vermillion, cobalt blue
flashing, mutating here to there
We are in an old movie
of danger and romance
Silently, without smile or frown,
she stirs sugar from bright white packets
into her curl of steam
hearth and home.
August 10, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
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