I see her in the mornings

Sitting in my building lobby

Leaning on her walker

Oxygen tank in tow

Attached to her nose

Via translucent cable.

She looks out of the window

Silently observing the constant

Traffic of people and cars

As they noisily whiz by

Unaware of her presence.

Her skin is void of color

The rosy flush of life

Drained from her cheeks.

She wears an auburn wig

It sits askew atop her head

And at it’s base can be seen

A few strands of escaping grey.

Her pale blue nightgown

Is faded and stained

Her slippers have holes at the toes.

Everyday she sits there,

People enter and leave

Barely taking notice,

There are no greetings.

No small talk.

No idle banter with her

From the busybody neighbors

Who cherish filling their routine

Lackluster days

With gossip and rumor;

They talk about her not to her.

I see their eyes

They are fearful of her

Seeing in her what may happen to them.

I have tried to greet her,

Muster up my warmest elevator smile.

I will not say that my efforts

Went completely unrewarded;

She did not speak to me

But in her eyes there was a gleam,

An acknowledgement of my attempt.

Only the awake

Speak with the eyes.

And so she sits

Waiting watching

Eternally reflecting in silence.

What wisdom or great secrets

She possess I will never know

They are enshrined

In the tomb of her mind.

Perhaps she was a great teacher

A painter

A singer

A lover,

A beautiful woman

Of some importance,

Revered

Respected

Life simply peeled away the layers

Slowly over time

As it will do to us all.

And so she sits

With her thoughts and memories

A fixture of my building lobby,

An example of time;

Her eyes ever vigilant

Observing the noisy

Downtown flow of Second Avenue,

The working class

The suits

The cops

The crazies

The pushers

The addicts

The punks

The pimps

The poets

She is waiting and watching.

And I cannot help thinking

Somewhere there is a better view for her.

But maybe I am wrong.