Through younger eyes
these items seemed few.
Barely a glance
as milk and honey produced
an audible tone; a cue
for a glare of impatience;
waiting.
Is this woman daft? Crazy?
Annoying?
Why?
Maybe...
Questions twice echoed
Screaming bones attempt to answer -
Try.

Her vision must be worse
than mine, the shopping bags
slipping grip, escape, resist
three times, with blushing face
strained force to reach
the doors, tears retract
quickly.

Critical times have made things
thin,
watching milk spill
over gritty pavers, footsteps
rush by and over
the world seems to
tumble
down, descending as a
strengthening arm secures
my sorrow with saving palms.
Sign language of hope,
renew my intent
to not lie down
quietly.

Now she sees me,
her attention given
upon my frail appeal
to her
superior, as they listen
to my
complaint.

Copyright © Stephen Francia 2012