Old Lady

Her black leather purse resting on the floor
well, what remains of it
some of the black leather skin has worn off
showing the tan canvas beneath it, as if unraveling
like a varicose plant
Her umbrella, folded and recoiled
with a cheap, white plastic ivory handle, with gold plated rings
it is so thin I can see through it
the many rains it's seen, have eaten its color away.

Then her shoes
that classic style, I call it "old french nun"
with wooden heels
and a sole, so thin and old
it can taste the years left forgotten on the pavement.

She doesn't stand out in this coffee shop,
everyone else is so young next to her,
everyone is so busy, with their smartphones and their hurry
they don't see this old lady,
barely holding it together
hiding her tears, very discretely.
She holds her coffee cup between her hands
and sinks her eyes and thoughts in it.
She glances from time to time,
but sees no one in particular.
Her makeup is completely ruined,
an accident of vanity,
giving her a slight evil clownish look,
And yet, there's nothing funny happening here.

Her sunken eyes
her long fingers
and a knot in her throat.

She's almost camouflaged,
her unassuming grey coat, her calmness
her long solid brown skirt make her disappear in the crowd.
But I can see her,
sitting on straight across from me,
and I can feel her sadness,
her empty loneliness.
Nothing to go home to,
other than her color tv.
And so she goes
revolving her coffee in hypnotic introspective,
preparing to walk into her coffin,
laying down and just letting it all finally end.
.. yet another couple of tears
skillfully wiped away,
no one noticed
.... but me.

Aging has taken its toll on this woman
as merciless as a war.
No medals, no honor
just a constant left lip twitch.
Then the world suddenly stops turning
and I come to one frightening truth:
there's no one as lonely
as the old.