Poetry

Paying a Bill

I am next in the queue
you insist, waving me forward.

Shaking my head I stand back.
We gaze at each other for a moment.

You see a woman surely twice
your age; I see not only fresh beauty

but a fading sunset of bruises
encircling one eye.

You turn your hand palm up;
a casual gesture or

so I can study that wrist,
its neat stitches.

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