At The Checkout

At the checkout an old, thin woman argued.
She was being overcharged.  It was, maybe, fifty cents.
“Com’on” muttered another - impatient,
Carrying self-importance as much as groceries.
 

“Maybe she’s poor,” said a voice in defense.
“I’ll give her the money.  It’s just fifty cents.”
 

Maybe the old woman argued because once
When she was younger she held the world

With authority, with flesh, but was now reduced
To change, to the memory in her bony hands.

Age

Like sunshine, a dancing mark:
A stained heart-manufacture
Which requires structure -
But needs the wings of a lark.

Walking

When we were younger, a New York morning

Was laced with last night's memories

Like new shoes with remembered twine.

Now our older mornings are stitched anew

With new laces and yesterday's shoes.